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" The afflicted Baron bade adieu to the mother 
and Daughter '*■ — Page 20. 


♦ 





NEW YORK: 


P. J. KENEDY, 
Excelsior Catholic Publishing House, 
5 BARCLAY STREET. 


* 



P24 

,S 3^ 

A rA 


entered, according to Act of O-egTeM, ib the year 1848, 

By EDWARD DUNIGAN, 

t*. ;h« Clerk '» Office of the Dtat/Vt Court of the Dill ted States fcr 
the Southern Dutrfct of .New- York. 


By Tnngffr 

D. r . Public Library 


OCT 2 1 1938 



HE eminent painter 
Bergheim, was a man 
of noble mind and pure 
and cultivated taste. He 
had travelled through Italy as a young 
artist, for the purpose of studying the 
works of the great masters ; and as he de- 
lighted particularly in subjects from Holy 
Scripture, and had resolved to devote his 
art exclusively to sacred, and especially 

7 


ANGELICA. 


to gospel history, he had copied, with 
untiring diligence and skill, every sacred 
niece which appeared to him to possess 
more than ordinary merit. With this 
treasure of paintings, he returned to Ger- 
many, and arranged them with great taste, 
in a gallery built expressly for the purpose 
in his own house. In their rich frames, 
they appeared to great advantage, being 
beautifully relieved by the light blue tint 
of the painted walls. 

His gallery was, in truth, unrivalled in 
its kind. The pieces were not brought 
together by chance, but selected from 
thousands by a man of exquisite taste , 
and being copied by a master-hand, they 
formed a most brilliant collection. Every 
visiter of taste who inspected the gallery, 
was, as it were, lifted out of himself, at 
the sight of so many noble figures, full 
of heavenly dignity and grace. For all 


ANGELICA. 


that is fair and beautiful, all that is good 
and great, that does honor to human na- 
ture, ennobles it, and raises it nearer to 
the Godhead, was here most exquisitely 
painted, from the tender innocence of the 
child, up to the portrait of the Most Holy 
among men, in whom the Charity of God 
revealed itself in the form of Man. 

The generous artist was never happier 
than when he found a man who could 
relish the beauty of these paintings ; and, 
it was a source of especial gratification to 
him, that his affectionate wife never en- 
tered the gallery without visible emotion, 
nor looked upon the pictures without un- 
affected delight. Still more happy was 
he, that his only daughter, though yet 
almost a child, took a pleasure in them, 
wonderful in one of her age, and made re- 
marks on them that astonished him. He 
had called her, in honor of the celebrated 


ANGELICA. 


painter of that name, Angelica; and he 
fondly hoped that his beloved child would 
one day become a distinguished painter, 
and resemble the noble artist Angelica, in 
more than in name. 

One Sunday morning, after divine wor- 
ship, the father, mother, and daughter, went 
into the gallery, and were admiring the 
paintings. Little Angelica remained stand- 
ing before one of them. “ This picture,’* 
said she, “ is my favorite among them all.” 

“ I do not wonder at it,” said her fathei, 
“ it is really one of the most beautiful 
among them. I copied it with especial 
care and delight, from a painting by 
your namesake, Angelica, which I saw in 
Rome. 

“ Look, dear Angelica,” he continued , 
“ the Blessed Virgin Mary is here painted 
as a tender child of your own age. She is 

watering these beautiful lilies in the flower- 
10 


ANGELICA 


pot A ray from heaven plays round the 
fail form of the holy child. Her parents 
are standing by — the father all amazed at 
the wondrous stream of light, and the affec 
tionate mother filled with holy transport !” 

Angelica’s mother was greatly moved, 
for she, too, had always preferred that 
picture, and had often gazed upon it de- 
voutly for hours together. It appeared to 
her that the cheerful innocent face of her 
own little Angelica, closely resembled the 
face of Mary in the picture ; but she did 
not remark this to her daughter, lest it 
might make her vain. 

“ Dearest Angelica !” she contented hei - 
self with saying, “ let Mary ever be your 
model ! See how pious and fervent, how 
soft and gentle, how full of holy innocence 
her tender face is ! See, the pure white 
lilies are an image of her pure thoughts — 

of her innocence ! May you also always 

n 


ANGELICA 


bloom in purity and innocence ! That light 
from heaven which shines around her, 
beautifully signifies to us, that God de- 
lights in innocence ; that all good comes 
from above ; and, that it is only God who 
can enlighten and sanctify men. Oh ! be 
you ever sincerely good and pious, and 
never cease to pray to God for light and 
strength from above.” 

“ Yes, dearest Angelica,” said her father, 
“ study to be like Mary ; your mother and 
I will always endeavor to imitate her pa- 
rents. Hitherto we have ever made it 
our care to bring you up in piety and vir- 
tue. Every day we pray to God, graciously 
to look down on you, to enlighten you, and 
make you bloom and prosper, as the flower 
blooms under the genial sunshine. This 
moment we renew our purpose and our 
prayer. 

u Oh, heavenly Father,” continued he 
12 


ANGELICA. 


clasping his hands, “look down on our 
dear Angelica, bless our endeavors, and 
grant that we may rejoice in this, our be- 
loved child, that she may grow up in piety, 
modesty, and prudence, and ever resemble 
Mary, the perfect model of all Christian 
virgins !” 

The mother’s eyes were filled with tears 
and Angelica, raising her lovely eyes to 
heaven, and clasping her little hands, said, 
“O gracious Father in heaven! bless me 
make me good and pious, make me the joy 
of my parents.” Her parents, with emo- 
tion, answered, “ Amen.” 

Such was the good Bergheim, and such 
the dispositions of his wife and daughter 
The family was the best and happiest in 
the whole country around. The father 
was constantly engaged in painting, and 
adorned numberess churches with exceed- 
ingly beautiful scriptural pieces ; for he 


ANGELICA. 


felt w. thin himself the noble thoughts and 
emotions, which his art taught him to im- 
press on the canvas. He instructed An- 
gelica in painting ; she made a rapid pro- 
gress, and surpassed all his expectations, 
both in skill in her profession, and in the 
piety, modesty, and prudence of her de- 
portment. To the mother was left the 
care of the household, which was a model 
of cleanliness and regularity ; and they 
lived in the happiest concord, for they 
were at peace with each other, and with 
the whole world. 

Among the numerous admirers of his 
art, by whom Bergheim was visited, the 
most constant was Baron von West, an 
intelligent and noble-hearted young man. 
He was the youngest son of a distinguished 
noble family, and enjoyed a large income 
from his paternal property. Endowed with 
a co *rect taste, and passionately devoted 

14 


angelica 


to the art of painting, he often spent whole 
hours with Bergheim, watching the pro- 
gress of his work ; and Bergheim conversed 
with him most willingly, especially on paint- 
ing, gave him, at his own request, instruc- 
tions in drawing, and became as much 
attached to him, as if he were his own 
son. 

One morning as Bergheim was sitting 
at his work in the gallery, where he gen- 
erally painted during the warm months of 
the year, Baron von West, dressed with 
more than usual elegance, walked in, and 
formally solicited the hand of the fair An- 
gelica. 

Bergheim laid down his pencil, stood 
up, took off his cap, and, after a few mo- 
ments’ reflection, said, “My dear Baron, 
you do me and my daughter a very great 
honor. I value it most highly ; but to my 
great regret I cannot accept it.” 


ANGELICA 


‘ No ” exclaimed Von West, greatly 
astonished and confused, “and why not? 
Have I, my dear Bergheim, in any way 
forfeited your good opinion ? Have you 
any thing against me ?” 

“ Not the least,” said Bergheim, “ but 1 
have, though you may think it a singular 
resolution, taken it into my head, never to 
give my daughter in marriage to any man 
but a painter.” 

“ But reflect a little, dear Bergheim” — 
the Baron was commencing — 

“ No reply can change me on this point,” 
said Bergheim, “ it is absolutely fixed, and 
nothing can change it. Such is the fact, 
my dear Baron, however foolish it may 
seem ; and you will only waste words in 
vain on this matter. But, though, as un- 
fortunate circumstances will have it, you 
cannot be my son-in-law, I hope we shall 

•till remain good friends, provided you be 

16 


ANGELICA 


so good as never to say another word on 
this subject to me or to my wife, much less 
to my daughter. I wish also, that your 
visits, otherwise so very agreeable to me, 
should, if they do not cease altogether, be 
much less frequent than before.” 



Baron von West retired, deeply afflict- 
ed. He had already satisfied himself of the 
consent of the mother and of the daughter’s 
inclination, and had not felt the slightest 
2 * 


17 


ANGELICA 


doubt that the father also would consent. 
He returned, therefore, to the mother and 
daughter, who were waiting, not without 
some anxiety, the father's answer to the 
proposal ; and with a sorrowful counte- 
nance, gave a full account of his positive 
refusal. 

Madam Bergheim immediately ran into 
the gallery to her husband. 

“For heaven’s sake,” said she, “how 
can you refuse so coldly the good fortune 
that is offered to our Angelica ?” 

“ The good fortune !” said the painter 
calmly, continuing his work, “ how do you 
know it would be a good fortune ?” 

“ How ?” continued she, “ is not the 
Baron noble, rich, agreeable, handsome, 
and virtuous ?” 

“Yes, most certainly,” said the father, 
“and I, myself, have the highest esteem 
for him — but, alas ! he is no painter.” 

18 


ANGELICA 


“ Oh !” said the mother, “ I don’t know 
now you got that whim into your head — 
to marry our Angelica to a painter. How 
many good painters do we meet ? or are 
you content to give her to a dauber ? for 
she will have but little room to choose.” 

“ I hope,” said the artist, “ that in due 
time an eminent painter who may please 
her, will make his appearance.” 

“ Ah ! how singularly you smile, as you 
speak,” said the mother. “ Either you are 
not serious in your expectations, or there 
is something mysterious in the matter. It 
you know such a painter, why have you 
never said one word about him, up to the 
present moment ?” 

“ It was not necessary until now,” said 
the father, “ there had been no question ot 
the marriage of our daughter. There is 
time enough yet for that. Let her now, 
while she is in the bloom of life, and unen* 


19 


ANGELICA. 


cumbered with family cares, devote her 
self to her art, tranquilly and joyfully. God 
will provide for the future. — And now,” 
said he warmly, turning to his work, “ 1 
should like to be alone ; I am just finishing 
a touch, which, perhaps, may escape me, 
if I be further interrupted.” 

The mother returned quite disconsolate 
to Baron von West and Angelica, and re- 
lated the substance of the conversation. 
“ Alas !” said she, in conclusion, “ nothing 
can be done now with the good-hearted, 
but singular old man. I know him well, 
when he has once taken any thing into his 
head, it is impossible to move him.” 

The afflicted Baron bade adieu to the 
mother and daughter. He comforted the 
weeping Angelica. “ For the present,” 
said he, “I g), since that is the best course 
that remains for me ; but do you continue 

faithful to me. 1 hope to return aftei 
20 


ANGELICA. 


some years, and then to gain the consent 
of your father, who, notwithstanding his 
refusal, has still my esteem.” Without 
further explanation, he took his leave. 
###### 

Nearly three years had elapsed. Baron 
von West had w r ritten twice a year to 
Bergheim, and more frequently to the 
mother ; and in his letters to the mother, 
he always enclosed a few lines to Angelica, 
in which he spoke most confidently of his 
hopes, but did not tell on what they 
were grounded. For a few months his 
correspondence had been discontinued al 
together. 

In the mean time, Gerhard, a distin- 
guished painter, who was travelling to per- 
fect himself in his art, paid a visit, for a 
few weeks, to Bergheim, saw Angelica and 
her beautiful paintings, and conceiving an 

ardent wish to make her his wife, wrote t« 

21 


ANGELICA. 


Berghe m on nis return to his own coun- 
try, after his travels, and solicited Angel- 
ica’s hand. With the letter, he forwarded 
a painting, executed by himself, as a pres- 
ent to Bergheim. 

Bergheim could not admire the painting 
enough. It was really a most exquisite 
piece. It represented two children, three 
or four years old, sitting on the grass under 
a group of alder-trees, and drinking milk 
out of an earthen bowl. “ It is inimitable !” 
said Bergheim. “ The little faces of the 
children are really charming. The lovely 
brown eyes and dark hair of the boy ; the 
mild blue eyes and light locks of the girl ; 
and the blooming ruddy cheeks of both chil 
dren could not be more beautiful. In what 
brilliant relief do the bright figures of the 
children stand out from the deep green 
shade of the alder-trees ! Every thing, 
down to the most delicate detail, is per* 

99 


ANGELICA. 


: ect ; even the hue of the earthen vessel, 
and the pale tints of the spoons, filled with 
milk, are exhibited in masterly style. An- 
gelica, I certainly will not compel you ; 
that is not right ; it would be a sin ; but 
how happy I should be, had you this excel- 
lent painter as your husband !” 

Angelica was in great affliction ; on the 
one hand, because she had not yet forgot- 
ten Baron West, though she had heard 
nothing from him for a long time, and on 
the other, because it was most painful to 
her, not to comply with the wishes of her 
father. She knew not what to do, and 
asked some time for consideration. But, 
one morning, the Baron unexpectedly ar- 
rived. Bergheim himself was from home, 
with an altar-piece which he had painted 
for a distant church, where he was also to 
retouch some faded pictures. The de- 
lighted mother instantly conducted the 

93 


ANGELICA 


Baron to the gallery where Angelica was 
painting. She started from her work with 
a loud exclamation of joy. 

“ Now, my dear mother, and my dear 
Angelica,” said the Baron, after the first 
salute, “ I trust that you both, and your 
father himself, will be content with me. 1 
return to you a painter, and though I am 
not very eminent, yet I trust I am not un- 
worthy of the name.” 

He had brought with him two little pic- 
tures, which he himself had painted ; the 
subject of one was flowers, the other was 
a fruit-piece. 

He first exhibited the fruit-piece. The 
fruits were elegantly arranged in a little 
fruit-basket. Angelica was enraptured 

“ Oh, how charming !” said she, “ inimita- 
ble! This bunch of grapes is like trans- 
parent gold. These especially, from which 
the skin is partly stripped, are so clear t 


ANGELICA. 


that you can see the inner texture and ker- 
nels ! You can count the veins in this dark 
green vine-leaf ; and that other one has 
the true autumnal yellow and purple tint . 
And see this pale-green peach ! It has 
been breathed upon, as it were, with the 
loveliest red, and appears softer and more 
delicate than velvet ! So true, so like na- 
ture does it look, that one almost feels 
inclined to pluck and eat it. The purple- 
streaked apple, with its bright green leaves ; 
the yellow pears ; and the blue-coated 
plums, are scarcely inferior to the grapes 
or the peaches ! and, then, the wasp there, 
it is so life-like, one is almost tempted to 
drive it away.” 

The Baron next showed his flowei- 
sketch. “ It is beautiful !” exclaimed An- 
gelica ; “ this basket of flowers is more 
charming than even the basket of fruits. 
Yes, that is indeed a rose — it wants 
3 


25 


ANGELICA. 


nothing but the perfume. The large dew- 
drops which hang on the green leaves 
actually reflect the red hue of the rose, 
and look as if they would fall every 
moment. How beautiful are those soft 
blue gilly-flowers ! Each flower ruffles 
its neighbor ; and the leaves and flowers 
are all most delicately shaded. How rich 
the hues of these pinks! — here dark-red, 
and there snowy-white ; and on this one 
— oh, how beautiful! — is a speckled but- 
terfly — a butterfly, finished to perfection ! 
You almost fear to touch it, lest you shake 
the dust from its wings. Every moment you 
expect to see it move them and fly away. 
Ah, dear Charles, you have made a won- 
derful proficiency ! it astonishes me The 
extraordinary pains you must have taken, 
are to me the most convincing proofs of 
your affection.” 

“ It certainly costs much toil, and many 
26 


ANGELICA 


ong years’ practice*” said the Baron, “ to 
De able to paint even a rose or a gilly- 
flower. A flower has always appeared to 
me a beautiful subject for this art ; for 
every flower is a benevolent design of the 
Supreme Artist — a work of the Creator, 
who first sketched it in all its beauty, then 
painted it before us, and has even drawn 
its outlines in the little seed, invisible to 
our eyes. But, alas 1” continued he, “ what 
are these paintings of flowers and fruits, 
when compared with the beautiful portrait 
of the heavenly Friend of children, at which 
you are engaged ? How poor are they, 
when compared to the pictures in this 
hall; these soul-exciting images of illus- 
trious men, of holy angels, and of Him 
who is exalted above all men and angels ! 
Ah! when I look around upon the An- 
gelical Salutation, the Nativity, the Holy 
Family, the Resurrection of Lazarus, the 


ANGELICA. 


Last Supper, and our Saviour expiring 
with His crown of thorns besprinkled with 
blood, or arisen and standing in the midst 
of his rejoicing disciples — how deeply do 
I feel the dignity and power of this art! 
What heavenly innocence, humility, de- 
votion, and fervor do I contemplate in 
the image of the Blessed Virgin! What 
brightness — what exemption from all earth- 
ly cares and earthly sorrows — in the face 
of the angel ! See how, on the noble coun- 
tenances of these apostles, the ‘ one faith’ 
and the ‘ one love’ is revealed in different 
forms and features. And there, Christ, 
the Man-God, combines divine dignity 
with human meekness : who does not fee' 
— who does not see, that God has there 
manifested himself in human form to man 
— that man is more than dust, and that vir- 
tue is the only thing that gives true nobility 
to men, and makes them like unto God?” 


ANGELICA 


He was silent for a few moments 
“ When I look on my poor flowers ana 
fruits, my dear Angelica/’ be mournfully 
resumed, “ I fear that your father will not 
be satisfied with me, and that, perhaps* ! 
have labored in vain.” 

“ Not satisfied with you f” eagerly ex- 
claimed Angelica, “ he will be overjoyed, 
astonished, enchanted, to find you, thus 
unexpectedly, so superior an artist.” 

Her mother, however, was uneasy, and 
told how much the father was taken with 
Gerhard, and how delighted he was with 
the picture which he had sent him. Baron 
von West requested to see it. 

“ It is really most beautiful,” said he. 
“ I acknowledge that I am far inferior to 
Gerhard. He has chosen for himself a 
nobler department of the art, than my 
talents allowed me to aspire to ; the hu- 
man figure, though it were only the lovely 
3 * 29 


ANGELICA 


figure of a little child, is the noblest work 
of the art, as man himself is the noblest 
work of God upon this earth. All other 
creatures, fruits, flowers, and insects, bear, 
it is true, the impress of His wisdom and 
goodness, and make known His benefi- 
cence ; but man was created after the 
image of God, and is of heavenly race. I 
therefore reverently yield the palm to Ger- 
hard’s work.” 

He walked up and down the hall for a 
few moments. 

“ A thought strikes me,” he suddenly 
exclaimed, “ which may surprise your father, 
and, perhaps, still gain the victory for me 
As you may see from my two little pic- 
tures, I have devoted my study to the 
painting, not only of fruits and flowers, 
but also of insects ; and, certainly, unless 
my friends and acquaintances flatter me, 
l have succeeded most satisfactorily. Now 

30 


ANGELICA. 


I remember tnat your father used to have 
a great aversion to flies, because he feared 
they would soil his beautiful pictures, or 
their golden frames ; and though he is so 
good and benevolent that he would not 
hurt the smallest of God’s creatures, yet 
he would often pursue a fly with a sort of 
phrensy, whenever he happened to see one 
here in the hall, and never could rest, until 
he had succeeded in capturing it. Many 
a time we used to amuse ourselves on this 
subject ; but he always took our innocent 
jests in good part. My idea is, to paint a 
fly on Gerhard’s picture, which will not 
injure the piece, but, on the contrary, en- 
hance its value. Flies are fond of lighting 
on a vessel filled with milk, and the painted 
fly will so deceive your father, that he will 
imagine it to be alive. He will regard it 
as his enemy ; but I choose it now as my 
advocate, and frien lly intercessor.” 


ANGELICA. 


The mother and daughter appioved his 
plan. They left him alone, and he at once 
set nimself to his work. He succeeded so 
admirably, that Angelica, herself, when in 
summoning him to dinner, she looked at 
the picture, thought it was a living fly she 
saw. 

In a fortnight’s time, the father returned, 
late one evening, to his family. They told 
him nothing of the arrival of the Baron, 
who was staying with some of his rela- 
tives in the town. Next morning, as 
the father was sitting at his work, in his 
cap and dressing-gown, and painting busi- 
ly, Baron von West walked into the gal- 
lery, accompanied by Angelica and her 
mother. 

Bergheim welcomed him cordially, though 
his arrival, at that precise time, was not 
very agreeable to him. He already looked 
upon Gerhard, the painter, as his son-in- 

32 


ANGELICA. 


aw ; and he feared that the nobleman 
might prove a formidable rival, and that 
Angelica might not be as willing to marry 
Gerhard, as she had hitherto appeared. 
He resolved, therefore, to show Gerhard’s 
beautiful picture, at once, to the Baron ; 
and then, when the great perfection of 
the work was duly acknowledged, to 
declare to him, that he had fixed on the 
author of that piece, as his destined son- 
in-law. 

The Baron gave the picture its due 
praise. Bergheim expatiated upon its 
beauties, one after another. 

“ I appeal to yourself,” said he. “ Are 
they not a lovely little pair ? Are not 
these little heads, with their smiling faces 
and curling locks, literally angelic ? So 
happy, so content, are the little ones with 
their bowl of milk, that they appear to 
have no other wish in this wide world ; 


33 


ANGELICA. 


and seem to say to us, ‘ Thus nappy could 
your dear little ones be, if you would not 
torment yourselves with empty cares.’ The 
whole piece is finished in faultless style. 
That earthen bowl, with its brilliant var- 
nish, pleases me better than a real vessel 
of massive gold ; and even that lackered 
spoon, almost overflowing with milk, which 
the little girl seems to be raising to her 
lip, slowly and cautiously lest she should 
spill it, is” — 

He suddenly stopped, for at that mo- 
ment he discovered the fly on the rim of 
the spoon. 

“ Ah ! ha !” said he, “ what are you 
doing there ? What brought you here ? 
Has the painted milk enticed you? You 
shall not escape unpunished.” 

He pulled off his cap, and endeavored two 
or three times to drive away the fly — bu* 
in vain. “ Are you not going, you ob 

34 


ANGELICA. 


stinate creature ?” he cried out angrily. 

“ Then you shall forfeit your life on the 
spot.” 

He struck the fly with his cap. “ What !” j 
lie exclaimed, in astonishment, “have I not 
hit you ? are you not dead ? no !” Again 
he struck deliberately and forcibly. 



AMGFMCA 


his finger — he shook his head, and put on 
his spectacles. 

“ V erily,” cried he, in the greatest amaze- 
ment, “ it is painted — as I live — painted ! 
Who did this?” 

“ Pardon me this innocent trick, my 
dear father,” said the Baron. “To gain 
your good-will, and to deserve the hand 
of Angelica, I became a painter. I did 
not wish to say any thing of my intention 
until now, as I was uncertain whether I 
could succeed. I would certainly have 
made a much greater proficiency in the art, 
had I had the benefit of your instructions, 
but circumstances made that impossible. I 
expect to be able to produce more worthy 
fruits of my labor, than these trifles.” 

Bergheim was both surprised and de- 
lighted. “ Truly,” said he, still closely in- 
specting the fly through his spectacles, 
“truly, your fly is a master-piece. How 

36 


ANGELICA 


nicely does it fix its slender legs, ana 
stretch out its little trunk to drink a drop 
of milk on the spoon ! How delicately 
all the colors of the rainbow play on its 
filmy wings ! Great an enemy as I am 
to flies, 1 must admire this one. It is a 
perfect fly.” 

Baron von West then showed the other 
two pictures he had brought with him, the 
flower-piece and the fruit-piece. 

“ My dear Baron,” said Bergheim, “ 1 
have now no objection to the marriage. 
You have not only completely removed 
the objection I had to it — you have, more- 
over, given me a decisive proof, that you 
have a sincere affection for my daughter. 
I must now tell you the whole truth : I 
was opposed to the marriage, not so much 
Decause you were not a painter, as because 
you had no art or profession at all, by 
which you could support your future wife. 

1 37 


ANGELICA. 


Riches I thougnt unsafe, especially in these 
times of war. I hold it absolutely neces- 
sary, that a man, be he rich or poor, should 
be able to earn his bread. I am convinced, 
also, that a man who has no certain occu- 
pation, can never live happy and content, 
but must fall into a thousand follies, or, 
perhaps, vices and crimes. I accordingly 
said within myself, the Baron has taste 
and talent for the art ; he shows great 
ability, even when working only for his 
amusement ; if he really desire to have 
Angelica’s hand, he can easily become a 
painter. He has leisure and time enough. 
Such were my feelings. I could not think 
of directly proposing to you to learn the 
art of painting. I thought it would be de- 
manding too much, that a man, especially 
a nobleman, should go serve his time to a 
painter. I left the matter to your own 
feelings ; but it was seer 3tly my most 

38 


anget tca 


cherished wish ; and that wish you have 
now realized to my fullest satisfaction. 
My dear son, may God bless you and 
my daughter, as I and my wife both now 
give you our blessing.” 

The marriage of Baron von West and 
Angelica was celebrated with all the joy 
of a domestic festival. They plighted their 
faith before an altar, the altar-piece of 
which represented the marriage of the 
Blessed Virgin, painted in a superior style 
by Bergheim himself. 

At dinner Bergheim was in his hap- 
piest flow of spirits. “ This day,” said 
he, “all flies, provided they are not too 
greedy, may take share of our wedding 
banquet.” 

The marriage of Baron von West and 
Angelica was the haopiest in the world. 
He, as well as Angelica and her father, 
devoted himself entirely to painting, and 

39 


ANGELICA. 


that art contributed exceedingly to en- 
hance their enjoyment. Both parents and 
children led a most happy life. 

“ How much happier am I now,” would 
the Baron often say, “ when each morn- 
ing invites me to labor, than formerly, 
when my first thought used to be with 
what amusements I could while away the 
empty hours, or rather, kill the precious 
time.” 

And the young painter soon had cause 
to praise his father-in-law’s wisdom for 
other reasons. For when his paternal 
property fell, by the chances of war, into 
the hands of the enemy, and his annual 
revenues were cut off, his art still brought 
him in a competent income. “ You were 
right,” said he to Bergheim, “ to give art 
the preference over riches ; a fixed occu- 
pation in life brings happiness and in- 
rumerable joys.” 

40 


ANGELICA. 


“ I am delighted, my dear son,” said the 
father, “ that you are convinced of this. 
Industry and labor secure our daily bread, 
the nourishment of our bodies ; art en- 
lightens and throws a charm over life ; 
but our holy religion is all in all. She is 
the food of our souls. Without her, what 
were the labor of our hands ? what, but 
a soulless, painful grovelling in the dust ot 
the earth ? Religion must ever be the 
soul of all — our most valued art — the soul 
of our souls.” 

Angelica’s parents lived to an advanced 
age. She was their joy and their crown. 
She and her husband were equally atten- 
tive to the beloved old couple ; Angelica, 
the eminent artist, was also the most care- 
ful of housewives, the most affectionate 
of wives, and the best of daughters ; and 
her parents would often say, “ Dearest An- 
gelica, all our wishes, hopes, and prayers, 

4 * 41 

cT 


ANGELICA. 


once poured out from our hearts before 
that image of the most blessed of all vir- 
gins and mothers, have been more than 
realized in thee !” 



i 









* 





“There was no person there but a delicate 
young girl” — Page 18. 





J 



was a very worthy 
man, and had the 
highest character 
among his fellow 
citizens for honesty, 
prudence, and high 
principle. In all 
his business he was 
a model of order and punctuality ; but in 
his habits and the general tenor of his life, 
he was an oddity. He still dressed in the 

7 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


fashion of the last century. On Sundays 
h is usual dress was a large, round, un- 
powdered wig, a neckcloth of the finest 
white linen, a frock of cinnamon browrif 
cut in the old fashion, with' large buttons 
covered with gold lace. The same taste 
was visible in his house. The furniture of 
the chambers, the tapestry, the frames of 
, the pictures .and mirrors, tables, chairs and 
sideboard, were all of costly material, but 
entirely of the old fashion. The writing- 
desk of walnut, with its old drawers, was 
the very one which had been used by his 
grandfather, and the cumbrous arm-chair 
still held the place it had held three gene- 
rations before. 

The habits of the family were also in 
accordance with old custom. They rose 
early and were in bed early. No candle 
was ever used in the house of a summer 
evening, nothing but the lamp in the hall 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


which was kept up during the night 
Though Mr. Frank was the richest mer- 
chant in the town, he would gather up 
bits of thread and pieces of torn paper 
in his counting-house, because, as he used 
to say, they could be of some use. He 
thought that his mercantile correspond- 
ents used entirely too much sealing-wax, 
a custom which he severely censured, not 
merely for the large annual outlay in the 
purchase of the article, but also for the 
heavy additional postage on the over- 
loaded letters. He also severely reproved 
the servants if the lamp in the hall were 
not extinguished the moment it was clear 
day. No wonder, then, that he was looked 
on as parsimonious, and narrow-hearted ; 
and that many who applied to him for re- 
lief and got a severe lecture on economy 
and industry, called him a miser. Still 
there were others who applied more than 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


once, and received such, liberal assistance, 
that they were surprised at his generosity, 
and gave him a very different character. 

His son, Mr. Frederick Frank, a fine 
handsome young man, had just returned 
from England, where he had been for 
some time. He was dressed in the first 
fashion, and people said that he and his 
father would assuredly fall out. But to 
their great surprise, the father not only 
had no objection to his son’s taste, but on 
the contrary, heartily approved it. The 
first commercial families in the city would 
be happy to have young Frederick as their 
son-in-law, but the common report was 
that the only son of old Mr. Frank and 
the only daughter of the rich Mr. Sax 
would be an excellent match. The two 
fathers had always been on excellent 
terms ; Mr. Sax was, after Mr. Frank, the 

richest man in the city, and the young 
10 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


iadj was beautiful, talented, and highly 
accomplished, so that the union was re- 
garded as certain. Frederick, it was said, 
paid more attention to the young lady 
than to any other in the town, and the 
father also, it was believed, was favor- 
ably inclined. But suddenly the friendly 
intercourse of the families was interrupted, 
and all rumors of the marriage ceased. 
People were utterly at a loss to know the 
cause. “No doubt,” said they, “it must 
be some oddity of that singular old 
Frank” 

The report soon went out, that young 
Frederick had given his affections to a 
young lady, who, even her enemies were 
compelled to admit, was beautiful and vir- 
tuous, but who had not a hundred florins 
fortune. “ Impossible,” was the general 
cry, “ impossible, the father will never 

tolerate such a marriage.” The whole 

11 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


town laughed at the rumor, until it was 
positively announced that Mr. Frederick 
Frank and Miss Wilhelmina Griinheim 
were really to be married on a certain 
day. Nothing could exceed the astonish- 
ment of the whole town at this unexpected 
news. 

The old gentleman very seldom saw 
large companies, or was a guest at public 
entertainments. lie could not endure 
these boisterous meetings and fatiguing 
pleasures, which were kept up till a late 
hour of the night. Every person was 
sure that the wedding would be very pri- 
vate. But far from it; old Mr. Frank 
invited all his respectable townsmen, and 
all those with whom he had any con- 
nection. All joyfully accepted the invita- 
tion — all except Mr. Sax, his wife and 
daughter, who left the town a few days 
before. 


12 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


Tlie guests all expected a marriage party 
in the old style. “ No doubt,” said they, 
“ we shall all be ranged in the old hall, 
with its old-fashioned decorations of fifty 
years 5 standing.” But judge of their sur- 
prise when, on entering, they found the 
hall, in which a banquet had not been 
given for many long years, freshly painted 
and decorated in most gorgeous style. 
Nothing was old but the wine, with the 
plain crystal old-fashioned glasses. The 
milk-white table linen, the richest produce 
of the Flemish looms, was covered with 
the most costly articles of English manu- 
facture, and the silver plate was in the 
iatest fashion, with all which old Frank, 
despite the simplicity of his taste, appeared 
highly pleased. 

Indeed, during the whole evening he 
was t'he very picture of happiness. His 

oldest friends never saw him so happy 
2 is 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


and cordial even in the hey-day of hia 
youth. 

Still some of the guests were heard to 
whisper, “ Old men do foolish things. The 
settlement that his son is getting is not 
worth all this extraordinary expenditure. 
The bride has no money ; her very dress 
and those rich jewels in her hair were 
given by the old man. The strange old 
fellow has disappointed us all.” 

Dinner was served up at a late hour in 
the evening. The crystal lustre over the 
table was lighted up, and in the gleam of 
its innumerable wax lights, the rich silver 
plate sparkled with abrilliancy that dazzled 
the beholders. The dessert, of the rarest 
confectionary and richest fruits, and all 
that wealth could command, was over ; the 
Rhenish wine and glasses had been brought 
in by two servants on costly salvers — when 
lo, the old man himself arose, left the hall, 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


and in a few minutes returned with a large 
common dark green earthen pitcher, and 
with his own hands placed it on the table, 
directly under the gleaming lustre. All 
eyes were riveted on this strange object. 
The pitcher was, certainly, elegantly deco- 
rated with fresh wreaths of the most beauti- 
ful flowers — still it made a very poor figure 
among the surrounding splendor. “ I 
knew well things could not pass over with- 
out some oddity,” said a fat old gentleman, 
who had already tested the flavor of the 
wines. The remark was overheard by the 
company, and, notwithstanding all their 
efforts, there was a loud and general laugh. 

“Welcome to your amusement, ladies 
and gentlemen,” said old Frank; “I can- 
not blame you. You have good reason to 
laugh. An earthen pitcher on the festive 
board is a mystery. You see it is a plain 
earthen pitcher. But it is full of the best 

15 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


Rhenish wine, twenty years old — and this 
old wine shall this day honor the happiest 
family feast that I, an old man, have ever 
witnessed. But however highly I value 
the wine, I do not value it half so much as 
that old pitcher. It was the pitcher that 
gave occasion to this festive party ; yes, 
were it not for it, this wedding would never 
have taken place. Ami wrong, then, in 
filling it with the best wine I had in my 
cellar, and in making it the crown of my 
festive board ?” 


16 


THE WATER PITCHER 


CHAPTER II. 

THE YOUNG WATER-CARRIER. 

The curiosity of the guests was wound 
up to the highest pitch, and all earnestly 
entreated Mr. Frank to give them a full 
history of the pitcher. Mr. Frank at once 
complied. 

“ One evening, last August, I was return- 
ing home from my garden. I had just been 
pulling the last apples from the trees that 
I had planted myself, and so happy did I 
feel at my work, that I paid no attention 
to the lateness of the hour, and the large 
dense masses of dark clouds that were 
gathering in the heavens. A very violent 
rain, accompanied with a cold and violent 
2 * 17 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


wind, overtook me before I reached the 
entrance of the town. I wrapped myself 
closely in my mantle, and arrived at tho 
main street in the suburbs, near tlie well, 
where the stone lion discharges the water 
from his open jaws, as if he would swallow 
up all the little girls that go to the spring. 
There was no person there but a delicate 
young girl, about sixteen years old, who 
was very neatly and elegantly dressed, but 
whom, lest I might offend her modesty,” 
said he, with a smile and an affectionate 
look at the blooming bride, “ I cannot 
name. That earthen pitcher, which stands 
there now with its wedding wreaths, was 
under the fountain, which, notwithstanding 
all the majesty of the lion, flowed very 
tediously. The young girl, fair and bloom- 
ing as innocence itself, and mild and gentle 
as patience, waited very composedly until 

the pitcher was filled. She had gathered 
18 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


a white handkerchief around her head, to 
protect herself from the rain. Still she 
was shivering with the cold. I could not 
look upon the angelic countenance of the 
good child, without the liveliest emotions 
of compassion. 

“ ‘Good evening, my dear child,’ said I, 
in a friendly tone. ‘You have not been 
in the habit of coming for water to this 
well.’ 

“She blushed slightly, and made no 
answer, but intimated by a gentle nod 
that my suspicions were correct. 

“ ‘ That pitcher is entirely too large and 
heavy for you,’ I remarked. 

“ ‘ Indeed, it is heavy enough,’ she re- 
plied, with a gentle smile. 

“ ‘ Perhaps it is necessity that obliges 
you to labor,’ I continued. 

“ 1 Ah,’ said she, with a sigh, ‘ it is lie* 
cessity, indeed.’ 


id 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


“ ‘ ’Tell me candidly,’ said I, with some 
earnestness, ‘ can I do you any service?’ 

“ ‘ I don’t know,’ said she with a gentle 
voice- — ‘perhaps you would he kind 
enough to place the pitcher on my head.’ 

“I did so. She thanked me as cordially 
as if she had received the greatest favor, 
and retired. 

“It is too bad, thought I, that a lady 
should be reduced to the necessity of car- 
rying water. ’ She is certainly of respect- 
able family, as is evident not only from 
her dress, but also from her genteel ap- 
pearance, her elegant accent, and manners. 
She must have had a good education. 
Probably, as she comes at this late hour, 
she belongs to some reduced family, who 
are ashamed to make their poverty known. 
I must make all inquiries after her, and 
do something to relieve her. 

“ I watched the house where she en- 


THE WATER P11CHER. 


tered, and learned that it was occupied by 
a turner, and that in a small back apart- 
ment, there was a decent old person, a 
lodger. The turner had a large collection 
of articles ready for sale, and as I was 
taking my evening walk next day, I 
entered and inquired for some things 
which I wanted to purchase. The master 
brought me up to his ware-room with the 
greatest alacrity, and as I observed a great 
many doors, I remarked, 1 You have a great 
deal of room here ; I am sure you must be 
receiving a large sum from your lodgers.’ 

“ 1 Ah,’ said he, ‘ all these upper rooms 
are filled with chairs, tables, and other 
articles of my manufacture. But on the 
ground floor I have a nice little chamber, 
which will be free in a few days, and 
which I can let to you with pleasure. It 
is very neat, and has an agreeable view 
into the garden.’ 


21 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


“ ‘ I should be very glad,’ said I, to 
have that chamber. Perhaps it would 
suit an old domestic of mine, whom I am 
anxious to provide for. Can I see it 
now ?’ 

“ ‘ Oh, certainly,’ said he ; adding with 
heartless rudeness, ‘The old tenant that 
has it now, is a very bad pay. If you 
pay me a small advance, the little room is 
at your service this moment.’ 

“ This harshness disgusted me, but 1 
said nothing. I went with him into the 
next room, and saw a large collection of 
really most valuable articles. I asked 
him the price of a writing-desk, and 
pushed so close a bargain with him, that 
he could have no profit: to accept his 
terms would have cost me only a few ad- 
ditional shillings ; but I wished to punish 
him for his severity towards a poor, old 

person, plainly telling him, ‘We must be 
£2 


THE WATER PITCHER. 



hard on hard people.’ I knew by his 
look at the moment, that his heart said I 
was a miser. 

“ When we came down stairs, I asked 
him whether I could see the room. ‘ Per- 
haps,’ said I, ‘ though the former bargain 
did not succeed, the second may.’ 


“He opened the door and introduces 
me. Old Martha, a decent looking old 
woman, was seated on her chair, spinning. 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


She burst into tears on hearing the cause 
of my visit. 

“‘Oh, now/ said I, ‘don’t cry. I will 
not dispossess you. To secure you in 
possession of this little place, I am ready 
to pay as much as your landlord can rea- 
sonably require. But he must engage not 
to disturb you during your life.’ 

“ The bargain was closed at once ; for I 
gave the man much more than he expected . 
I then told him, that I wished to have a 
few moments’ private conversation with old 
Martha. He retired in excellent humor, 
but shook his head as he disappeared. ‘ No 
doubt,’ he meant to say, ‘ old Frank is an 
oddity — at one time a miser — and in a few 
moments, a prodigal. No man can fathom 
him.”' 


THE WATER PITCHElL 


CHxlPTEK III. 

THE OLD SERVANT-MAID. 

“ Old Martha was overjoyed,” continued 
Mr. Frank, “and would have kissed my 
hand, which I, of course, would not allow. 
I sat down on the only old chair in the 
room, and began to speak to her. In a 
corner of the room, on a bench, I saw the 
pitcher which I had seen at the well, and 
which you, my honored guests, have the 
happiness of seeing here to-day. ‘ That’s 
a very large pitcher,’ said I — ‘ but house- 
keeping, no matter on how small a scale, 
cannot go on without much water. But is 

not the well very distant, and you do not 
3 25 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


appear strong ? How do you contrive to 
get water V 

u The old creature felt that she could 
repose confidence in me, though she now 
saw me for the first time. She commenced 
a long narrative, every word of which came 
from her heart ; so that she was eloquence 
itself. 

11 ‘ You see, my dear sir/ said she — ‘ par- 
don me, I don’t know by what title to 
address you — I am ready to give you a 
full history. I know } r ou have a kind 
heart, and do not despise the poor. It is, 
alas ! too true, I am very poor. But, praise 
be to God, I have not much reason to 
complain. An angel girl has taken me 
kindly under her care. I saw better days, 
when I was a servant-maid with Mr3. 
Griinheim of Hall-brunn. Her husband — 
God be merciful to him — was an amiable, 
good man, and his death was felt as a 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


general loss. If the people could, they 
would long since have raised him from the 
grave. For he was always ready to assist 
every one with his money and advice. He 
never received presents — his hand was 
always open to the needy. It was no 
wonder, then, that he died poor. I was 
present at his death — as were his wife and 
daughter — mercy, how time flies! — the 
child was then only eight years old — now 
she is a woman — the wife and daughter, I 
was saying, were both standing by the bed- 
side. Oh, how the three of us wept — but 
lie consoled us. He implored his wife, in 
the most moving strain, to place her trust 
in God, the protector of the widow and the 
orphan, who would never abandon her. 
He then pressed her hand in his own icy 
hands, and made her promise to bring up 
their only daughter in piety and virtue, to 
guard her against pride, vanity, and the 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


love of pleasure — to keep her always under 
her own care, and never to allow her to 
keep company with vain and silly girls. 
The good lady followed this advice to tho 
letter, and is now reaping the reward of 
her fidelity. 

“ ‘ He turned then with faltering voice 
to his daughter, and exhorted her to “ love 
above all things God — her Father, who is 
in heaven — to embrace with her whole 
heart the laws of our Divine Eedeemer — 
to read every day, at least, a few lines of 
Scripture or holy books — to be constant in 
her attendance at divine worship — to pray 
frequently, to honor her mother, to obey 
her, to confide in her motherly care, and 
never to keep any secret from her — never 
to tell her an untruth — but to support her 
always, and never abandon her in her old 
age.” The child promised faithfully, while 
her tears fell fast, on the cold hands of her 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


dying father — she has kept her promise 
faithfully — God bless her — a better child 
was never on this world. 

“ ‘ My good master did not forget me. 
He spoke a few words to me, which I can 
never forget. 

“ ‘ “Martha,” said he, “you have been in 
the service of my parents, and have grown 
gray in the family. I hoped that we could 
keep you until the end of your days. But 
God has disposed otherwise. I cannot re- 
ward your fidelity. God will undoubtedly 
repay you here or hereafter. 

“ ‘ “ I have very little to bequeath to you,” 
he continued, addressing us, ‘ but I leave 
you no debts. And among the little that I 
do leave, there is not one ill-gotten penny. 
God’s blessing will be on you, you will 
prosper as well as if I had left you thou- 
sands. The prayer of the poor, their 

grateful 'God reward you,’ must bring 
3 * ** 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


dow n blessings on you.” A few moments 
after, tbe good gentleman died — alas ! only 
in liis forty-second year. We were obliged 
to leave tbe bouse, and bad very little 
property to depend on. The poor lady 
was so afflicted for the loss of her husband, 
that she fell dangerously ill, and her tem- 
poral affairs became more and more disor- 
dered. I saw clearly that she could not 
afford a servant-maid — though she was 
ashamed to tell me so. But, as I had a 
sister, who was ready to receive me, I 
went to her, and my good lady and her 
daughter came to Hall-brunn, and lived 
for several years in a little room not larger 
than this. Some time ago, she came to 
this town, and was able to get an unfur- 
nished chamber, with one bedroom and a 
little kitchen, in the fourth story of a large 
deserted house. She expected to be able 
to support herself here by her own labor, 

30 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


as she had done in the village. The mo- 
ment that Wilhelmina, or as we call her 
now, Mina, arrived here she discovered 
where I was. My sister had already died 
in great distress, and I had hired this little 
place for myself. I could not tell how 
happy I was on meeting my young mis- 
tress. She kissed her poor old servant, 
and we both wept with joy. From that 
moment she has done more for me than I 
can tell you. I have on Sundays and 
holidays, a share of the best that their own 
poor table affords. Yes, and could you 
believe it, ever since I lost the use of my 
limbs, she comes daily and brings me 
water from the well, in that very pitcher. 
She bought it out of her money, because 
she could not manage a water tub. God 
will repay her — he repays even a cup of 
cold water given in his name ; a thousand 
times, I tell her, God will repay her 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


Hitherto, indeed, she has nothing but sor- 
rows. Her dear mother has been ill foi 
some time past, and poor Mina has no 
person to help her now. She is very ex 
pert, but the best work brings but small 
profits. She has, also, great taste for em 
broidery. See there, in that old prayer 
book, over the pitcher, a little pious pic- 
ture, which she decorated with her own 
hands, when she was a mere child, shortly 
after her father’s death. She made me a 
present of it. It represents a green grave 
covered with a black cross, under the 
drooping boughs and yellow leaves of a 
weeping willow. Whenever I -look on 
that picture, the tears start to my eyes, for 
the death of the good father, whom the 
poor child lost so soon. I weep, too, to 
think that such delicate hands should, from 
love for me, carry that load of a pitcher. 
The good God will reward the child.* 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


“Such was the faithful old servant’s 
narrative. 

“ I took the old prayer-book, which ap- 
peared to serve as a cover for the pitcher, 
and examined the picture. It pleased me 
much. ‘ Is it not beautiful ?’ said Martha. 
‘ 1 know well that it pleases you.’ 

“Now,” said Mr. Frank, addressing his 
guests, “ my dear friends, you must pardon 
me for giving this long story of the poor 
servant. The way she expressed herself — 
her manner — is not, perhaps, to your 
taste ; but the matter is good — something 
the same as the pitcher on the table. I 
think no one here objects to the Rhenish 
wine, because it is served in a pitcher. No, 
no — no person is such a fool. How then 
could I suspect any of you of the much 
greater folly of disrelishing truth, because 
it comes from an humble source, and with- 
out any artful pomp or glitter of words. 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


CHAPTER JTV 

WILHELMINA. 

“ 1 remained for a considerable time,” 
continued Mr. Frank, “in Martha’s room, 
in the hope of seeing my dear daughter-in- 
law ; as the hour for bringing the water was 
near. She did come at last, and was greatly 
surprised on seeing me. Martha began at 
once to extol me. ‘ Dear Mina,’ said she, 
1 1 cannot contain my joy. I must tell you 
the good news — the weight that pressed so 
heavily on me, is removed from my heart. 
I always feared,’ said she, turning to me, 
that I should, some day or other, be 
obliged to leave my little room. My land- 
lord was not satisfied with his rent, and 

34 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


was constantly seeking more and more 
every quarter. He threatened to dispos- 
sess me, and I scraped together as much 
as I could from my poor earnings. Mina 
paid twice for me ; but we could pay no 
more. We reckoned and planned, but 
there was no chance of success for us, when 
God sent you here to put an end to our 
trouble. Dearest Mina,’ said she, ‘ this 
good gent’eman is ready to make up the 
sum I want, and I shall no longer be under 
the necessity of taking the money which 
you so often earned for me, by hard work 
till midnight.’ 

“Mina stood there, blushing at these 
praises ; she was the very image of amiable 
modesty, but I wished to put her virtue to 
a severe test, in order to know whether it 
was pure gold — merchants, you know, are 
exact. ‘ No doubt, my child,’ said I to her, 
‘ it’ is very generous in you to assist old 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


Martha in this way, and I commend yon 
for it But you carry your kindness too 
far. Is "it not too much to bring water 
from the well to a poor old servant-maid ? 
Can you deny it?’ 

“But Mina stared at me in amazement, 
and with a gentle nod, answered, ‘ 0, Mr. 
Frank, the proof you have just given of 
your generous and tender feelings, shows 
that you cannot be serious in what you 
say.’ 

“ ‘ In solemn earnestness,’ said 1, ‘ a huge, 
shapeless pitcher, is a very strange object 
on the head of a young, handsome, and 
well-dressed lady. You are the laughing 
stock of the town. To carry water is not 
fit occupation for you.’ 

“‘I think,’ answered Mina, ‘that to help 
a good person in need, can never be unbe- 
coming. Can it ever be unbecoming to 
do good? Certainly, Mr. Frank, if you 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


thought so, you would not have had the 
kindness to raise the pitcher on my head, 
yesterday, at the well. You would have 
said, 4 Oh, that’s not fit work for a respecta- 
ble citizen — let other people do it.’ 

“ 4 Oh,’ said I, 4 that was a trifle not worth 
talking about. It was no more, if you will, 
than a little civility, which an old man 
might well pay to a young lady. But to 
draw water every day — so far — through 
frost and rain, and all sorts of bad weather, 
is no trifle. No, no — to become the servant 
of a servant-maid, is carrying kindness too 
far. There would be no end to the calls 
for your services, if you were willing to 
carry water for all that may require it.’ 

“‘No doubt,’ said Mina, smiling, 4 the 
most generous good-will could not accom- 
plish that. But that I should walk a few 
steps for my good old servant Martha, is, 
in my eyes, not an act merely of civility, 
4 * 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


but a sacred duty. What feelings would 
I have, if I refused to do it? You cannot 
conceive what unspeakable services the 
good Martha — poor though she now is — 
has done to me and my mother, and what 
a noble and affectionate heart throbs under 
those rags. She scarcely could be called 
our servant — her dispositions made her a 
friend — a second mother to me. As far 
as I can remember — yes, farther — even 
from my very birth — she has had the care 
of me. How many long days has she 
carried me in her arms ? How many sleep- 
less nights has she spent at my bedside, to 
relieve my mother, who placed the most 
boundless confidence in her. How many 
thousand walks has she taken on my 
account? What has she not endured for 
me, while I suffered the infirmities of child- 
hood? She often spa^d, from her own 
hard earnings, what might purchase a pre- 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


pent for me on my birthday. She assisted 
my parents in educating me. She told me 
little stories a thousand times, and always 
told them to instruct me. How earnestly 
has she warned me against evil, and taught 
me to fly, with horror, the least appearance 
of sin; and pictured the beauty of filial 
piety— of innocence, and modesty, and in- 
tegrity, in the highest colors, to my youthful 
mind. But who can tell what she did during 
my father’s long illness? her sleepless 
nights — her sympathy in our sorrows — her 
carelessness of her own comforts, in order 
to spare expense ; as she knew that we had 
but little, and that my father’s long illness 
entailed many heavy charges. And then, 
of the paltry sum that was due her when 
she left us, she did not receive even one 
penny. I could have no feeling, were I so 
ungrateful as to refuse walking a few steps 
for so kind a friend. It is no trouble tc 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


me. 1 lose nothing by it. I hav( always 
a half-hour at my disposal before sunset, 
and, as my occupations keep me : t home 
all day, an evening walk is good for n y 
health. It is recreation to me. N > doubt 
it may appear somewhat strange, that a 
person dressed as I am should be seen 
drawing water. I thought so myself, tbe 
first time I ventured into tbe street with 
my pitcher. I blushed when I met my 
acquaintances. I was obliged to bear a 
great many railleries, and it was to escape 
them that I usually went out only in the 
dusk of evening. But what, thought I to 
myself, — what harm can it do to a person 
to be laughed at for doing a good act? 
Still, to be very candid with you, were it 
possible to manage otherwise, I would 
much prefer not to carry the water. But 
the people of the house, here, will not do 
the least good service to poor Martha. We 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


found, here in the neighborhood, a young 
girl, who engaged to bring the water, and 
do other little turns for her, on the promise 
of receiving a dollar every quarter from 
my mother. But the girl was careless. 
Sometimes she was late, and sometimes she 
forgot it altogether. Just imagine to your- 
self, then, what must have been the con- 
dition of poor Martha — left so long without 
as much water as would prepare her soup, 
or even quench her thirst. Away, said I 
at last, with false shame. They who do 
good, need fear no shame. Moreover, there 
is a satisfaction in doing personally what 
we are personally interested in. And, be- 
sides, — but I have said too much already ; 
so good evening to you/ said she, taking 
up the pitcher. 

44 ‘0/ said Martha, f tell the rest now. 
Your mother gives you the dollar, and you 
give it. to me. It enables me to have a 

4 * 41 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


good bowl of warm milk every morning 
for breakfast. In truth, my dear Mina, not 
only for that, but for a thousand other 
things. I am under a debt of gratitude to 
you, which I cannot fully express. No 
matter how long I may live, I never can 
repay you.’ 

“ ‘ Be silent, my dear Martha,’ said Mina, 
1 you have paid that debt long ago. My 
only wish is that I could do more for you, 
and that our new lodgings were not so 
confined, and up so many flights of stairs, 
as to prevent us from bringing you to live 
with ourselves — we are somewhat better 
attended where we live.’ The good child 
wept as she said these words, and taking 
up her pitcher, turned and quickly dis- 
appeared. 

“I now returned home,” said Mr. Frank 
to his guests, “ and on my way my though 
were completely absorbed in the scene 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


bad just witnessed. The conduct of thin 
young girl, thought I, trifling though it 
may appear to many, appears to me the 
most noble that I have ever heard of in 
the course of my life. I know not which 
to admire most — her gratitude to an old 
servant, whose claims were no way extra- 
ordinary — the modesty of the noble girl — 
the calm superiority to the world’s thoughts 
and concerns, so unusual in a person of her 
age — or the industry with which she toiled 
for the support of her mother. I resolved 
to become acquainted with the mother of 
so good a child. I resolved to go see her, 
and to give her some assistance. I went 
to purchase some embroidery, and found 
the mother just what }mu might expect 
from the conduct of the daughter. I was 
struck with the neatness and order visible 
in her poor apartments. There was not 
one atom of dust — all, all was just such as 

43 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


pleased me. I requested to see some spe- 
cimens of the embroidered work, and was 
charmed with their elegance. From that 
moment, Mina was constantly employed 
by me. I know well that I am reputed 
by some to be enormously rich, and by 
others to be a very great miser ; but che 
terms I made with Mina were not such as 
might be expected from a merchant who 
was either one or the other.” 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


CHAPTER Y. 

MISS SAX. 

M After ,x>me time,” continued old Mr, 
Frank, “ my son Frederick returned from 
England — and God be praised — to the 
great delight of his father ; for during his 
absence he had wonderfully improved. I 
have no difficulty in telling him now, on 
his wedding day, that he fully realized — 
yes — surpassed my fondest anticipations. 
In a short time the whole city, though 
certainly without the consent of me or my 
son, had arranged a match between young 
Mr. Frank and Miss Sax. It was to have 
been a great festival for the whole town. 
The two families, Sax and Frank, are the 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


richest amongst us; the two children are 
the sole heirs of the family properties, and 
nothing is wanted, said the general report, 
to bring the business to a conclusion, but 
two enormous sums of money. As our 
gardens lay close to each other, it some- 
times happened that both families met and 
walked, together after dinner. My son 
walked with Madam and Miss Sax, while 
Mr. Sax and I followed in the rear. This 
circumstance removed all doubt from 
people’s minds. The marriage was uni- 
versally considered to be definitely settled. 

“ One evening, about nightfall, we were 
all returning home together. Mina, carry- 
ing her pitcher, met us. She appeared 
disconcerted, made way for us in the nar- 
row passage, and stood there, modest and 
trembling, with her heavy load on her 
head. ‘ Good evening, Miss Mina,’ said I, 
in a friendly tone. A loud laugh from 

4 6 

\ 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


Miss Sax ! This ruffled my temper. ‘ Miss 
Sax, why do you laugh,’ said I, ‘is it at 
me, or the young woman?’ ‘0! Mr. 
Frank,’ said she, ‘ not at you, but at the 
young water-lady.’ ‘Why do y<3u call 
the good child a water-lady ?’ I asked in 
such a tone as not to let her see that the 
expression displeased me. ‘ Oh,’ she an- 
swered, with a smile, ‘ I think a young 
lady with a pitcher of water on her head, 
rather a strange sight. A pitcher of water 
and a lady are rather an odd association. 
The dress she wears, is worn only by res- 
pectable people — the business she is en- 
gaged in, is done by servants. I cannot 
but laugh when I see beggary and respect- 
ability so oddly associated.’ ‘ But,’ said I, 
‘ I have the very best reasons to know, 
that she is carrying the water, not for her- 
self, but for a poor, old, helpless woman, 
who was once in her service.’ ‘If so,’ 


47 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


answered Miss Sax, ‘ she must be a very 
simple soul, and her simplicity has duped 
her into a very strange impropriety. For 
a thousand ducats I would not be seen in 
her dress, going through the streets with a 
pitcher of water on my head, in danger 
of meeting, at every step, people of res- 
pectability. Let servants get their wages 
— that is enough for them — you are under 
no farther obligation to them — all their 
claims are settled.’ She would have chat- 
tered more, but I saw the mother giving 
her a wink to be silent. A dress-maker 
happening to pass by at the moment, with 
a large parcel under her arm, Miss Sax 
suddenly broke off the conversation, 
saluted the dress-maker most familiarly, 
and begged to know to what lady she 
was bringing the bonnet she had in her 
parcel. 

“ This little adventure had very con- 

48 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


siderable influence on me. I do not deny 
that I had some notion of having my son 
married to Miss Sax. Still I had many 
misgivings on the matter. I could not 
form a fixed opinion on her character. 
But I had now got such a view of her dis- 
position, that I was convinced she and I 
could never agree. That whole evening, 
Mina was constantly before my eyes. I 
saw her standing there, so virtuous, so 
modest, so talented, standing with her 
pitcher on her head, and giving no other 
answer to the haughty look, and coarse 
laughter, and cutting railleries of Miss 
Sax, than by turning her eyes with more 
gentleness and modesty to the ground. 

“ I candidly acknowledge,” continued 
Mr. Frank, “that I began to think a 
young woman like Mina, would be a most 
desirable daughter-in-law. Such a noble 
heart, thought I, is worth a ton of gold— 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


arid no amount of gold can supply tho 
want of a noble heart. If Mina were so 
kind tc an old servant-maid, who could be 
unhappy with her? But I kept my 
thoughts to myself — I resolved that my 
son’s choice should be free.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE SUITOR. 

“ That evening, when we came home,” 

said Mr. Frank, “my son was pensive. 

When we were at supper, he asked me, 

who was that young woman, whom he 

had seen now for the first time. He beg- 

sred me to tell him the whole history of 

that water pitcher, with which I appeared 

to be so well acquainted. I did so, in the 

same simple strain in which I have now 
ao 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


told it to you, without making any remark, 
but, I was happy to see, not without mak- 
ing a very visible impression on my son. 

“ After some time, I perceived that 
something was depressing my son’s spirits. 
I implored him one morning at breakfast 
to place confidence in his father, and not 
conceal his secret, whatever it was. He 
began — but with very evident symptoms 
of embarrassment and alarm, to tell me 
the high opinion he had of Mina — and to 
give hints of his hopes and fears. ‘Do 
you know,’ said I, ‘that she has no 
money ?’ ‘ Perfectly well,’ he answered, 

firmly, ‘but it is not money I want.’ 
‘ And how is Mina disposed towards you?’ 
‘ Precisely,’ said he, ‘ as I am towards her.* 
‘ You must have had some mutual decla- 
ration then,’ said I. ‘ Never,’ he answered, 
‘not one word on any such attachment, 
not a syllable about marriage ever passed 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


our lips ; how could I, without the con 
sent of the best of fathers, speak of mar- 
riage or of an attachment to any person, 
until I had reason to hope that a marriage 
would take place ?’ ‘ But are you certain, 
said I, ‘ that Mina is sincerely attached to 
you, and that she, a poor girl, is not look- 
ing perhaps for your riches.’ ‘Impossible,’ 
said Frederick, ‘such intentions are utterly x. 
incompatible with her character. I am 
convinced she can have no such intentions.’ 

“ He then began to tell me, very elo- 
quently, that Mina’s virtues were of more 
value than all the gold in the world. 

‘ Frederick,’ said I, interrupting him, 

‘ what reason have I ever given you to 
imagine that your father prized money 
more than virtue? — come — come to my 
arms, and receive the assurance of my 
most hearty approbation of your choice. 
In small matters, I have certainly been 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


careful about money — but it was in ordei 
that you need not look for it in the most 
important affair of your life. I am de- 
lighted with your choice — it is in perfect 
accordance with my wishes — the fondest 
wishes of a father’s heart. And now, 
with your leave, you must allow me to 
be your suitor with Mina’s mother. You 
may follow in half*an-hour’s time.’ 

“ I ran — and it was, certainly, no easy 
matter — I ran up the four flights of stairs, 
to the little room of the excellent widow. 
Mina was sewing — seated in her usual 
place. She was a little disconcerted when 
she saw me. The good mother, too, ap- 
peared surprised at such an early visit, and 
at so unusual an hour. I told my business 
at once — and marked, with inexpressible 
delight, the joyful amazement of the affec- 
tionate mother, and of the young woman 

herself — who, certainly, had no hope of 
5* S3 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


any such proposal. ‘Are you aware,’ said 
the mother, ‘ that I have nothing — abso- 
i utely nothing, to give with my daughter?’ 
‘ Let not that cost you one thought,’ said T, 
‘ Mina is as rich as a king’s daughter — riel) 
in the noblest property — piety and virtue. 
I don’t want money. No rich lady for me 
— I want a good daughter-in-law ; and if 
you and your daughter consent, I am the 
happiest father-in-law on earth. I must 
insist, moreover, that you do not give 
your daughter the value of one penny in 
money — nothing but one article of house- 
hold furniture — I mean the big water 
pitcher in which Wilhelmina carried the 
water every day to the old servant-maid. 
I firmly believe that water pitcher will 
bring more luck into my house than if it 
were full of gold coin.’ Before the mother 
had time to answer, my son entered. She 
and I then joined the hands of our chil* 

54 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


dren, and. wept as we blessed tliem. It 
was a happy, blissful moment, of the 
purest and most unclouded joy. 

“We kept the matter a profound secret. 
My son was obliged to take a long jour- 
ney. In the mean time I had my house 
newly painted, and all my silver plate re- 
cast in the newest fashion. I did so, partly 
to give some employment to our trades- 
men, who then had not much work, and 
partly to do all in my power to celebrate 
with suitable pomp the present happy day. 
This festival is above all, and I thought I 
could not dc too much to honor it.” 

55 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


CHAPTER VII. 

NOBLE CONDUCT OF THE YOUNG COUPLE. 

“ Such, my worthy friends,” said old 
Mr. Frank, closing his narrative, “ is the 
history of The "Water Pitcher, and I 
am sure you are not surprised that I have 
given it the place of honor here to-day. 
It had, as you have seen, a very consider- 
able part in bringing about this union. 
The clumsy, old pitcher, served as a 
matchmaker, though it was as unconscious 
of its influence, as the modest, gentle 
bride, when she carried it through the 
streets, in the discharge of a sacred duty 
to her old servant. Let it, then, wear its 
garlands, and hold its place of honor. It 

has won them well, and done more good 
66 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


in the world than many a fat gentleman, 
though he may have drank perhaps ten 
times more wine than the pitcher ever 
brought water from the well. 

“Permit me,” said he, “to add a few 
words to my narrative. -This water pitcher 
proves to us all that those whom God has 
blessed with ‘no wealth — those who have 
no money — can yet do many charitable 
acts. Charity of this kind is most agree- 
able to God, and brings down on the 
poor greater blessings than gold. This 
pitcher ought to be preserved as a family 
monument; and, in a hundred years hence, 
the children* of the house cannot look 
upon it without reverencing and blessing 
the memory of their grandmother. I 
wish that every young woman, be she rich 
or poor — be her settlement in life high or 
low — could present some such simple 
article to her future husband — suppose a 

57 


THE WATER PITCHER 


little basket, in which she had from time 
to time, brought bread, or eggs, or butter, 
to the poor ; or a little earthen plate, on 
which she had laid aside at every meal 
some broth, or nourishment of some kind, 
for a sick person ; or a work-basket, in 
which she had put up every day, were it 
only for a few moments, some sewing or 
other work to clothe the poor. Unpre- 
tending articles of this kind would not, it 
is true, make such a figure as many costly 
presents, but they would be the most 
valuable treasure in the house. No doubt, 
costly articles of silver plate are a valuable 
capital, which can be turned to good ac- 
count should necessity require — but in 
those little articles I have mentioned, there 
would be a still more valuable capital, 
payable in the other world.” 

11 Bravo,” exclaimed the fat gentleman 
at the foot of the table, who from time to 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


fcimb Lad cast many a wishful glance at the 
pitcher — “ Biavo, my dear Mr. Frank, you 
have spoken most eloquently. But for 
the present, we have heard enough of the 
pitcher. Let us now test the flavor of the 
noble beverage it contains. The good 
wine smells sweeter even than those 
flowers that crown the pitcher. The 
flavor tells upon me — here at the foot of 
the table.” 

Whilst the fat old gentleman was 
speaking, the bride whispered something 
into the ear of old Frank, who immedi- 
ately told the company. “ I promised the 
bride not to refuse any request she should 
make this day. But since the request she 
has made now, is one which I cannot 
grant without the consent of my honored 
guests, I take the liberty of submitting 
the matter to your consideration. The 
bride was most anxious to have her old 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


friend Martha, to whom she owes many of 
her good qualities, present here at table, 
and she begged me to send her an invita- 
tion. I went in person, and invited her. 
She was so ill that she could not come, 
and I must declare, that her absence is a 
considerable abatement of the happiness 
of the evening. It was, therefore, resolved 
that we should send her a portion of all 
that was provided for our guests. But 
now the bride comes with another request. 
Martha has been ordered by the physicians 
to get some good old wine. The bride 
thinks that if the poor sufferer were to 
take only the same small quantity daily 
which she used to take in her former sick- 
ness, this full pitcher would serve her for 
a whole year, and perhaps keep her alive 
for ten years to come. I would not have 
communicated this request to the company, 
but would have taken the very simple and 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


obvious course of exhausting the pitcher 
here in honor of the bridegroom and 
bride, and then sending it replenished to 
old Martha. But, to be plain with you, 
I cannot do that ; for I have not another 
drop of wine so good as this: I have long 
kept it in reserve, especially for this very 
occasion. My little cask precisely filled 
the pitcher. There it is before you ; you 
have a right to it — there is no question of 
that. Still, I venture to propose to you, 
to take the votes of the company— 
‘ whether we shall drain the pitcher here 
in honor of the bride and bridegroom, or 
content ourselves with the wine which we 
have now, and some other which is com- 
ing, and which is very good, and comply 
with the wish of the bride, by devoting 
the wine to a work of mercy. 7 The 
majority of votes decides.' 7 

11 Wlia — wha — what !” stammered out 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


the fat gentleman at the foot of the tables 
who would have brought up the rear of 
the dissentients. He coughed and hemmed, 
and was preparing to make a long speech 
on the matter, but was received with an 
universal burst of merriment. The bride’s 
wish was granted by acclamation, and the 
wine voted to old Martha with unanimous 
and hearty consent. The fat gentle- 
man was the only dissentient, and he 
looked so sadly disappointed that the com- 
pany could not refrain from laughing 
heartily at his expense. He muttered and 
grumbled, “ I knew well the old man 
could not do even one sensible act. He 

was, and is a .” He muttered the 

last word so thickly, that even the person 
by his side could not hear it. 

The burgomaster, who came dressed in 
his robes of state to honor the festival, sat 
in one of the highest seats, near the mother 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


of the bride. He overheard some of the 
words of the fat man, and remarked, “I 
have often heard it said that Mr. Frank 
was a singular man ; that it was hard to 
know what sort of person he was, and that 
he himself did not well know his own 
wishes. But I never heard such remarks 
from sensible people. Mr. Frank knows 
perfectly well, what he is doing. I could 
never see in his conduct, any of those ima- 
ginary eccentricities. He retained, for 
instance, the old fashion, both in dress and 
in the furniture of his house ; but by this 
adherence to good old customs, and to his 
abhorrence of ever-changing and expensive 
fashions, he has amassed the greater part 
of his large fortune. He was sparing in 
small things, that he might be liberal on a 
splendid scale, to his fellow-men. He often 
managed matters in such a way, that those 
who were unacquainted with his motives, 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


censured him severely. But he not only 
gave himself no concern about what people 
thought of him, but even appeared to take 
a delight in being misunderstood. But the 
truth came out in the end. This was ex- 
actly the case with the pitcher. For my 
part, I could not guess what brought it 
here. I saw the bride blush, the bride- 
groom’s eye beaming with joy, the bride’s 
mother raising her eyes gracefully to 
heaven, and not a few of the guests almost 
inclined to laugh. But what a delightful 
and instructive explanation of his conduct 
have we not received from Mr. Frank? 
We are charmed with the story of the 
water pitcher. All of us, heartily approve 
the charitable use to which the good old 
wine is destined. 

“I cannot refrain,” continued he, “from 
adding another brief, but not unimportant 
observation. When a man of whose dis- 


64 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


cernment and prudence we have a good 
opinion does an act that appears strange to 
us, we must not at once conclude that he 
is acting imprudently or wrong. W e ough t 
to suspend our judgments ; time will tell 
whether he was right or wrong. We 
should observe the same course with regard 
to such men, that religion teaches us to 
hold with regard to many things that God 
does or permits to happen. At first, his 
ways are often utterly unintelligible to us; 
but in the end, we find that they were just 
and good. It were well that we could 
always follow this rule — never to prejudge 
the conduct of a good and prudent man, 
and much less the ways of a most wise and 
bounteous God.” 

The burgomaster then raising his glass, 
amid the plaudits of the whole party, drank 
to the health of Mr. Frank, the bride and 
bridegroom, the bride’s mother, and all the 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


guests ; and thus closed as happy a wed 
ding feast as ever had been celebrated. 

When the company had retired, the 
bride took the pitcher, and gently address 
ing her husband, “ Many a time,’ 5 said she, 
“I brought this pitcher, full of water, to 



my old friend; would it not be a good 
thing if I brought it to her this evening, for 
the last time, with the wine?” The hus- 
band took his hat at once, to accompany 
her. The bride’s mother suggested that it 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


would be better to run tlie wine in bottles. 
“ No, no,” said old Mr. Frank, “ the pitcher 
will be more welcome to old Martha. But 
I will send a servant with bottles to have 
the wine bottled and sealed in presence of 
the young couple.” 

The bride and bridegroom then walked 
by the light of the moon through the 
streets of the town. Oh, what a transport 
of joy was it not to the good old servant, 
now in her eightieth year, when she saw 
the young pair in their bridal dress enter 
her humble abode! When she saw the 
pitcher with its gorgeous wreaths, and 
, heard the whole story, and tasted the 
restoring beverage — the like of which had 
never passed her lips — big tears, bursting 
from her grateful heart, rolled down her 
face, as she raised to her lips the rich old 
wine, which shone in the crystal glass like 
transparent gol d . “ God reward you — G od 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


reward you,” she repeated again and again. 
“ Truly,” said she, in a calm and solemn 
tone, “ truly, this marriage is not unlike 
that at which our Lord and Saviour was 
present. When bride and bridegroom 
celebrate their marriage-day, as you have 
done, it is an invitation to Him to be 
amongst you. For you, dear Mina, He 
has indeed changed the water into wine. 
For, when you came here to me so often 
with the pitcher of water, you never im- 
agined that the good God would, one day, 
enable you to present it to me on your 
marriage day, full of this costly wine. This 
is the reward of your pious and prudent 
life. God will pour out greater blessings 
still on you and your husband, whose heart 
is so like your own. Yes, -rich blessings 
are in store for you. And, even though 
severe trials should be sent to prove your 
virtue, — though you should be reduced to 


THE WATER PITCHER. 


beggary, and be obliged to use the water 
pitcher, yet the virtuous dispositions of 
your hearts would make that water as 
agreeable as the most costly wine.” 

As the bride and bridegroom were re- 
tiring from the house, they still heard the 
grateful exclamations, “God reward you 
—God reward you ” — repeated by faithful 
old Martha. 







# 





































“ Behold, yonder lives the honest old man 
who is to shelter you.” 












































f 







. 














In that unhap- 
py period of 
French histo- 
ry, when the 
throne of her 
ancient royal 
race was over- 
thrown, and a 
multitude of her noblest families plunged 
into the deepest misery, there lived on the 
farther bank of the Rhine a family named 

7 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


D’Erlau. Mr. D’Erlau was a man of high 
principle and excellent disposition; his wife 
was a very good and amiable lady ; and 
their two children, Charles and Lina, were 
exact copies of their parents’ virtuous dis- 
positions. The moment that the fearful 
disturbances, which cost all Europe such 
streams of blood and of tears, broke out in 
France, Mr. von Erlau retired from the 
metropolis to his most remote estate, which 
lay between the Rhine and the Vosges 
mountain. Here, in liis castle, which, as 
well as the adjacent village, was surround-’ 
ed by rocks, vine-clad hills, corn fields, and 
orchards, he lived with his family in the 
deepest solitude, far away from the business 
of the world. His retainers, who honored 
him as their greatest benefactor, and who 
hitherto had been accustomed to- see him 
only for a few weeks each year, were 
delighted to find him now permanently 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


settled amidst them. His kindness to them 
was beyond description — the country all 
around was like a garden — and the object 
of his generous ambition was, to render 
it a garden of Paradise by elevating the 
character of its inhabitants. 

Devotedly attached to his children, he 
esteemed it a great happiness that he here 
found time to be himself their instructor; 
and his most delightful hours were those 
which he spent in instructing them in reli- 
gion. He was firmly convinced that religion 
alone is capable of truly forming a man, 
imparting to him true worth, securing his 
happiness, and comforting him in the hour 
of necessity or of death. His virtuous wife, 
penetrated with the same feelings, always 
sat by during these lessons, and her tender 
and pious maternal heart often suggested 
an impressive sentiment confirmatory of 
the instructions. In these times of peril, 


THE CANARY-BIRI). 


the father dwelt with special emotion on 
God’s holy Providence, and on confidence 
in Him. When the mother looked upon 
her children, who were doomed to pass 
through this stormy world, and then 
tli ought of the love which rules all des- 
tinies on high, she shed tears at once of 
sorrow and of joy, and her words became 
truly “ spirit and life.” What came from 
the heart found its way to the heart. The 
good children listened with the utmost 
attention and piety, and the tears often 
glistened in their eyes also. Both parents 
and children, however, notwithstanding 
the perils which encompassed them, pre- 
served a joyous and cheerful spirit. 

In addition to the most important subject 
of all, religion, Mr. D’Erlau instructed his 
children in every other useful and neces- 
sary science ; nor did he even overlook 

those things which are but ornamental, and 
10 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


serve to add to the enjoyments of life. He 
himself, among other accomplishments, 
played admirably upon the harpsichord, 
and sang so extremely well, that few, ex- 
cept his wife, could excel him. He taught 
little Charles, therefore, to play the harpsi- 
chord, and gentle little Lina to sing. 

One gloomy and terrific evening in the 
end of winter, the father and mother, with 
Charles and Lina, were sitting together at 
the harpsichord, in their warm and brilliant 
saloon ; for music and singing was their 
ordinary relaxation at this season of the 
year. Mr. D’Erlau had written a little 
hymn to God’s protecting Providence, spe- 
cially for the two children, set it to an easy, 
pleasing air, and composed for it an accom- 
paniment so simply arranged that the little 
fellow could compass it with his tiny fingers. 
Their mother did not know anything of it 

as yet, for the children wished to give her 

11 


THE CANARY-BIRI). 


an agreeable surprise with their hymn. 
After she had sung several beautiful airs, 
therefore, with her own matchless voice, 
her husband accompanying her on the in- 
strument, he called upon the children to 
give a specimen of their little skill ; and 
the little ones, modestly, but yet with great 
sweetness, sang the air which he had com- 
posed. Their mother was charmed with this 
h rst performance of her darling children. 
No concert at the king’s court could have 
given her so much pleasure. “Yes,” she 
cried, “ God, who has yet protected you, 
will still be your powerful Protector.” 

But lo ! — on a sudden the door was 
flung violently open, — a body of the 
National Guard, in full uniform, pressed 
forcibly into the apartment — the leader of 
the troop produced an order for Mr. D’Er- 
lau’s arrest: he was taken prisoner, and 

informed that, without remonstrance or 
12 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


delay, lie must accompany them to the 
town prison. He was charged with being 
a royalist, and an enemy of liberty — this 
was the ground assigned in the order for 
his arrest. The mother threw herself at 
the feet of the rude man who stood before 
her, with dark flashing eyes, tangled black 
hair hanging dishevelled on his forehead, 
and a fierce-looking bushy beard.— She 
wrung her hands ; the scalding tears 
streamed down her cheeks, pale with ter- 
ror ; her two little ones, too, held up their 
tender little hands, praying and beseech- 
ing them not to take away their father. — 
The tears chased each other down their 
cheeks, and in a short time they could not 
articulate for sobbing. All was in vain ! 
They did not even obtain a delay till the 
morrow, not even for a single hour, to 
enable him to pack up a few necessaries 
for his dreary residence in the prison. 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


They were immovable. He was ordered 
to proceed upon the spot; and while the 
mother embraced him with tears and loud 
lamentations, and the children clung to his 
knees, he was violently torn from them 
and led away. 

It would be idle to attempt a description 
of the sorrow of the mother and her chil- 
dren. They were guarded in the apart- 
ment, in order to prevent all further 
excitement in the village, in which D’Er* 
lau was very much loved. The mother 
had fainted away with terror; and now 
she sat in an arm-chair, weeping, wringing 
her hands, and raising her streaming eyes 
to heaven, the children sobbing and wail- 
ing around her. In a short time, however, 
this pious and high-souled woman recov- 
ered her firmness. “ Let us not so soon, 
my dearest children,” she cried, “ abandon 
our hope in God ! ’Tis He who has sent 

14 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


as this dreadful trial: He, too, will give 
us grace to support it ; He will turn it to 
our advantage, and change it hereafter 
into joy. Let us say to Him cheerfully 
and confidently , 1 Lord, Thy will be done.’ ” 


CHAPTER II. 

THE MOTHER’S FLIGHT. 

The unhappy lady employed every possi- 
ble exertion to obtain her husband’s release. 
The moment the guard was withdrawn, she 
flew to the city. She went to the judges, 
declared her husband’s complete inno- 
cence; appealed to the evidence of the 
whole neighborhood, that he had always 
lived peaceful and retired, not mixing at 
all in public business, nor even speaking 

to any one upon it. She flung herself at 

16 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


tlieir feet, but she might as well have 
spoken to statues of stone. Not one of 
them was moved to pity, and all she could 
obtain from them was permission to visit 
her husband in prison; and she was even 
informed, that in a few days he must die 
a bloody death. 

When she returned, after three days, to 
her residence, the castle was beset by 
soldiers. Her property had been seques- 
tered, and the castle pillaged, and con- 
verted into a barrack. She was not even 
allowed to go in, and went sadly away, 
weeping and bewailing her children, for 
no one could tell her where they were. 
All her people were dispersed; it was now 
late in the evening, and she knew not 
whither to turn, even for shelter during 
the night 

In the dusk of twilight she met Richard, 
her old and faithful servant 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


“Ah! my dear, kind lady,” said he, 
“you are in imminent peril of being ar- 
rested at any moment. In some hasty 
moment you dropped a few words about 
‘injustice and barbarity crying out to 
heaven;’ about ‘oppression under the 
semblance of freedom.’ Some evil-minded 
persons have taken up these words, and 
given information in the proper quarter, 
and now there is no hope possibly for you 
but in instant flight. To harbor you 
would be attended with too much danger; 
you could not hope to save your husband ; 
and your remaining would but lead to your 
own destruction. Your children are in my 
house ; come thither with me ; my brother, 
the old fisherman of the Rhine, is already 
in expectation ; I will accompany you to 
him to-night, and he will transport you and 
your children safely across the Rhine, and 

thus you shall, at least, save your life.” 

2 * 17 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


She went to honest Richard’s house, 
which was in the village. But a new 
trouble awaited her here. On the very 
day on which her mother went to the city, 
Lina had taken ill, with grief and alarm, 
and the sickness had this evening greatly 
increased. The poor little girl lay in a 
violent fever. She was quite delirious, 
and did not recognize even her mother. 
The mother, therefore, insisted upon re- 
maining and taking charge herself of her 
darling child ; but the physician, who was 
present at the moment, very earnestly op- 
posed this resolution. 

“ The patient,” he said, “ will not hold 
out much longer ; she will not recover her 
senses any more, and may now be regarded 
as dead. The lady’s presence cannot now 
be of any use to the poor child ; and it is 
her duty to think of her own safety.” 

The afflicted mother stood, pale as 

18 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


death, and her eyes red with weeping, by 
the sick bed, unable to resolve on leaving 
it. The physician took her gently by the 
arm, urging her anxiously to fly. She 
made a step or two towards the door, 
trembled from head to foot, and then 
turned round eagerly with outstretched 
arms, and clasping her daughter to her 
heart, cried out in a tone of deep anguish, 
“No, my darling child ! I cannot leave 
you ! I care not for life ! I will die with 
you!” 

Old Richard and his good wife besought 
her with uplifted hands to set out without 
delay, and promised solemnly to take care 
of the sick child as though she were their 
own. 

“ Night has just fallen,” said Richard : 
“ under its protecting shade it is possible 
to escape; every delay brings danger, and 
may cost not alone you, my dear, noble 

13 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


fady, but also myself and my wile, our 
lives; for to harbor any one for a night, 
without giving previous notice, is forbid- 
den under pain of death.” 

“Well, dearest Lina,” said the heart- 
broken mother, “ if I can render you no 
further service in this world ; if my re- 
maining here can serve no end but to 
bring these good old people to the scaffold ; 
I will now go in God’s name. Farewell, 
dearest angel; go to the abodes of bliss, 
where innocence no longer is doomed to 
suffer, where the tear ceases to flow, and 
loving hearts shall know no further sepa- 
ration.” 

Little Charles, who stood beside his 
mother, took his sister’s hand with tears 
and sobs. 

“ Eejoice, dear Lina,” said he, “you will 
now be a bright angel in heaven. There 
you will be far happier than here on earth. 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


where we must ever live in fenr and in 
anxiety. Ob ! that I could go witli you!” 

Tne mother knelt down by her darling 
daughter’s sick bed. 

“ To Thee, 0 God,” she cried, looking 
up to heaven, “ to Thee I offer her as a 
sacrifice. I deliver her, without reserve, 
to Thy mercy and compassion !” 

She was silent for a few moments ; stood 
up quickly, kissed Lina, then took Charles’s 
hand, and without looking around, passed 
out of the door, trembling in every nerve 
with suppressed emotion. 

She now betook herself to flight. The 
trusty servant had collected some neces- 
saries for the journey, and appeared very 
heavily laden. The poor lady followed 
him, carrying a little packet under one 
arm, and holding with the other hand her 
deal litt7 e boy, who also carried a small 
bundle. Not a word was exchanged. The 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


ni^ht was most severe, it blew and rained 
tearfully. “This storm and these torrents 
of rain,” said the old man, in a low voice, 
“ are pure mercies from God ; they shelter 
us from our enemies. Thus, everything 
that to us appears terrific, actually tends 
to our advantage ; and thus it is with the 
sorrows, the storms, and the gloomy occur- 
rences of life !” 

They arrived, at length, at the old fisher- 
man’s house, and went into the little sooty 
room, dimly lighted by a single oil lamp. 
The generous fisherman welcomed the 
lady and her boy heartily to his hut. 
While he, with Richard’s assistance, was 
conveying the skiff to the Rhine, his wife 
set before the lady and the little boy some 
warm soup, bread, and a little wine. 
Trembling with cold and with fear, they 
swallowed a few morsels. The two men 
returned. They conducted the lady to 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


the Rhine. The moon, now in the last 
quarter, had arisen, and shone at intervals 
through broken clouds, enlivening the ter- 
rific darkness a little. The poor lady left 
an icy chill come over her, as she stood on 
the brink of the vast river, roaring fear- 
fully in the might of its current, and saw 
their wretched little skiff scarcely capable 
of holding two persons. She trembled as 
they urged her and her. little boy to go on 
board ; but the men gave her courage. 
The old fisherman stepped in, seized the 
oar, and with pious confidence predicted, 
“ God will help us over !” 

Richard now took his leave ; the faithful 
fellow had secured, in the plunder of the 
castle, a gold box, a gold watch, and a 
couple of diamond rings. These he now 
delivered up to Madam D’Erlau, and he 
added a few gold pieces which he had saved 
in her service, without saying that they were 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


his own. As lie kissed her hand, he wept 
bitterly , and he pressed the little bo}' to 
his heart with many a deep sob. 

“ O, my dear lady !” he said, “ I am an 
old man, and this is the last time I shall 
ever see you and my dear Charles. I can- 
not be of farther service to you, but God 
will protect you ; He still has happy daj r s 
in store for you. So good a mistress can- 
not be left a prey to misfortune. I would 
gladly accompany you; but perhaps, I 
shall yet find means to rescue my kind 
and noble master. I will leave nothing 
untried.” 

They all wept and sobbed together. 
The lady once more commended to him 
the care of her husband and her daughter ; 
the old man faithfully promised this, 
and assisted her and Charles to get on 
board. 

As the boat pushed off, Richard fell 

24 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


upon his knees on the shore, and raised 
up his hands to heaven. 

“ I will kneel here,” he cried, “ and pray 
to God for a safe passage for them ; I shall 
not rise from my knees, till my brother 
shall bring the glad tidings of their safety. 
Oh ! that I could bring to them there the 
same happy news of my dear master and 
their darling little daughter!” 


CHAPTER III. 

> 

THE HONEST TYROLESE. 

Madame D’Erlau had crossed the 
Rhine in safety with her boy, and was now 
secure. But she could not remain where 
she was. There were great difficulties in 
the way of a refugee’s remaining in that 
country, and oesides the scene of the war 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


was drawing nearer every day. By the 
directions which Richard had given her 
she travelled along the Rhine to Switzer- 
land. Her money disappeared rapidly. 
The' cost of living in Switzerland was rep- 
resented as too high, and she was advised 
to seek a retreat in Swabia. After much 
fruitless wandering hither and thither, she 
came to the frontier of the Tyrol ; and at 
last, by the mediation of a benevolent man, 
she obtained a promise that an old Tyrolese 
would give her shelter in his cottage. 

She prepared at once, with little Charles, 
for the journey, the guide, who showed her 
the way, also carrying the baggage. Her 
road lay over high mountains and deep 
valleys. At last, as she reached the sum- 
mit of one of these mountains, she espied, 
at a fearful depth below, a narrow green 
valley On the right of this valley, at the 
foot of a gloomy over-hanging cliff, stood 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


a few low wooden cottages, with flat, and 
almost perfectly plane roofs, from the midst 
of which arose gleaming, as though it were 
covered with glossy gray silk, the window, 
roof, and spire, of a little chapel. On the 
left of the valley stood a bleak pine forest, 
behind which two mountain peaks arose to 
the clouds, still entirely covered with snow, 
though everything in the valle} 7 was green 
and blooming. The guide pointed into the 
valley with his staff, and said, “That is 
Schwarzenfels ! Below, yonder, lives the 
honest old man who is to shelter you.” 
Madam D’Erlau sighed, and descended by 
the narrow foot-path. 

The old Tyrolese, who had been ex- 
pecting her on that day, came out to meet 
her with a hearty and cordial air. Though 
old, he was still a hale man. With out 
forms of politeness he was entirely unac- 
qainted. He never dreamed of our cere- 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


momous forms of address in speaking to 
any one. Still he had his own correct 
notions of good breeding. And on this 
day, to testify his respect for the strange 
lady, he appeared in his gray Sunday 
jacket, with his scarlet neck-cloth, and 
wore his fine green hat, from which a 
waving cock’s feather dangled. “God 
save you, noble lady !” said he ; “I am de- 
lighted to be able to afford you and your 
little boy a shelter under my roof.’ 1 

His wife, a fine old gray-headed, but 
rosy-cheeked dame, stood at the door. Her 
dress was scrupulously clean. As she was 
just coming from the kitchen, she rubbed 
her hand in her white apron, before she 
offered it to the lady. “God save you, 
dear lady !” said she, “ our meal is just 
ready, but you must put up with humble 
fare. We have little here but milk and 
butter, oaten bread and potatoes.” 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


The Tyrolese conducted the lady into a 
side apartment, the little window of which 
looked out upon the gloomy pine forest 
and the snow-covered peaks. The whole 
furniture of the room consisted of a table, 
a bench, two deal chairs, and a shining 
green earthenware stove, which supplied the 
place of a grate ; beside it, there was a small 
miserable sleeping closet. Still the lady 
thanked God for having granted her even 
this little spot. 

She managed her little housekeeping as 
well as circumstances permitted. She 
cooked for herself, and spent the rest of the 
time in knitting and sewing, by which 
she earned a trifle. Her greatest anxiety 
was to keep Charles occupied. She had no 
books to instruct him herself; and beside, 
he had already begun to learn Latin. One 
morning as she was thinking anxiously 
about this, the little bell of the chapel began 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


to ring, and her good, pious hostess came 
running in to say that the parish priest, 
from the village on the opposite side of the 
mountain, was going to say Mass that day. 
Madam D T Erlau at once went with Charles 
to the chapel. The priest after Mass made 
a little address, which affected her deeply. 
After Mass she spoke to him, and found 
him a very intelligent, pious, benevolent 
man. He promised to provide the neces- 
sary books, and to instruct Charles for a 
couple of hours every afternoon, if he 
would take the trouble of coming over the 
mountain to him. 

Charles agreed to this gladly, and now 
that he had a fixed occupation once more, 
was doubly happy. He could hardly wait 
for his dinner, in his anxiety to be early 
over the mountain with his books. Mean- 
while, however, when, at times, it rained 
for days together, and he was prevented 

30 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


from going out, the poor fellow was almost 
without any means of entertainment. His 
prudent mother was convinced that inno- 
cent recreation is just as necessary as work, 
and tried to devise some means of provid- 
ing both for him. 

In the Tyrol they breed a great many 
canary-birds, which are sold far and near, 
by dealers who make a special trade of it. 
Their old host, too, had at that moment, 
several very fine young canaries, and 
Charles begged his mother, as these birds 
were so cheap here, to buy one of them 
for him. 

“ Lina used always to have one at home,” 
said he: “buy one for me, and we shall 
have something, amid these rocks and 
woods, to remind us of our dear native 
land I” 

His mother readily consented, and the 

boy selected for himself, from among all 

si 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


the birds, the prettiest one, and that which 
most resembled the bird his sister had for- 
merly had. 

Charles took the greatest delight i n the 
little yellow bird, with its bright, black 
little eyes. In a short time it became 
tame, and would fly to him when he 
stretched out his finger, and pick the 
crumbs even from his very lips. — When 
he sat down to write, it would fly to him, 
perch on his pen, and peck at his finger ; 
so that, though these tricks delighted him, 
he was often obliged to shut it in its cage, 
in order to labor without interruption. 
When the bird began to sing, he was 
never tired praising its notes. 

“ You must teach him some pretty little 
piece,” said the old Tyrolese to him, one 
lay. 

Charles thought the old man was jok- 
ing for he did not know that birds can be 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


taught to sing airs. The old man produced 
a small instrument, which he called a little 
flageolet. 

“Ah!” said Charles, “that is a beauti 
fill little ivory flute !” His host played a 
little waltz for him, and showed him how 
to hold it. The boy was charmed with its 
clear, distinct tones ; and as he had great 
musical talent, learned it easily, and soon 
was able to . play every piece the moment 
he heard it. He often would play for the 
bird now, and always the same piece ; and 
when, at length, the bird sang it for the 
first time perfectly and without a mistake, 
he actually leaped for joy ; and his mother 
smiled, and told him that he must always 
have to say his lesson as correctly and as 
readily as the bird. And thus the canary- 
bird and the flute were the source of many 
a pleasant hour to the merry boy, and even 
to his mother, when it happened that storm 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


or rain shut them up in their gloomy apart- 
ment. 

Meanwhile the fate of her husband and 
daughter was ever before Madam D’Erlau’s 
mind, and caused her many a sad day, and 
many a sleepless and tearful night. She 
was always on the watch for intelligence, 
but in vain. The only French news she saw 
was in the journals which the parish priest 
used to send her every week by Charles, 
not receiving them oftener himself. One 
evening, Charles came joyously into the 
house, and took the papers out of his bag. 
“The parish priest,” said he, “had not 
time to read them all through, but he had 
seen that they contain a great deal of good 
news.” 

She read eagerly, and found that the 
news about the war was really very good , 
and she began to hope that she might soon 
%gain venture to return to her dear native 

34 


THE CAN AKY-BIRD. 


land. But, alas! at the end of the last 
journal was a list of the nobles who had 
been executed for their devotion to the old 
regime, and among them was the name of 
her husband, Henri D’Erlau ! She shrieked 
as though a thunderbolt had smote her; 
the paper dropped from her hand, and she 
fell down in a swoon. It was long before 
the people of the house, who hastened in 
at Charles’s cries, were able to restore her. 
She fell into a dangerous illness ; her re- 
covery was extremely uncertain ; the poor 
boy, who never for a moment quitted her 
bedside, wasted visibly away ; and many 
a time the old Tyrolese would shake his 
head and say — 

“Alas! the coming harvest will strew 
its leaves on the grave of this poor lady ; 
and the little boy will, perhaps, never see 
the next spring.” 

* 


THE CANARY-BIRD 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE FATHER IN PRISON 

Richard, the faithful old servant, had 
waited on the opposite bank of the Rhine 
till his brother, the fisherman, returned 
with the news of the lady’s having safely 
reached the opposite bank. His greatest 
anxiety now was to save his dear master 
from death; for Richard thought it the 
extreme of injustice that he should perish 
for his devotion to the rightful king. 

Early on the following day he hastened 
to the town. He had a son in the town, 
named Robert, who had been compelled 
to serve in the National Guard ; and by the 
assistance of this brave and quick-witted 
youth, who took his turn in guarding the 

36 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


prisoners, Richard hoped to rescue his 
master from prison. They devised every 
sort of plan, but could not form any that 
was practicable. At last they resolved 
that the son should keep a sharp look-out, 
and embrace the first favorable opportunity 
to release his lord. None however offered, 
and Robert began to abandon all hope. 

At last, Monsieur D’Erlau was con- 
demned to die, and the sentence was 
ordered to be executed upon the following 
morning. Gloomily resting his head upon 
his hand, he sat late at night in his solitary 
cell, unable to sleep. They had not thought 
it worth while to bring him a light, so that 
he sat in utter darkness. He thought of 
his wife and children. His care was for 
them, and not for himself. In utter igno- 
rance of what had befallen them, he was 
full of anxiety for their fate. But the sen 
timent which, with a glance to heaven, he 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


had uttered when his death-sentence was 
pronounced, still remained unshaken in 
his heart — “ 0 Lord, Thy will be done !” 

He turned all his thoughts to God. “ In 
whom,” said he, among other things, “ shall 
I find comfort in this the last night of my 
life, save in Thee, dearest Father in heaven ! 
What thou permittest, is ever the best. Do, 
therefore, with me and with mine, accord- 
ing to Thy divine will. If Thou takest me 
from my wife and my dear children, Thou 
wilt watch over them Thyself with paternal 
care, and comfort them in their great afflic- 
tion; and in firm reliance upon Thee, I 
will lay my head upon the block, which is 
already stained with the blood of so many 
of my friends. If on the contrary, Thou 
wilt grant me yet a little longer to my 
wife and children, it is easy for Thee to 
open the door of my prison, and deliver 
me from the power of my enemies, and 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


our whole lives shall be devoted to con- 
tinual thanksgiving to Thee !” 

While the high-minded prisoner was 
buried in such thoughts as these, a sudden 
alarm was raised upon the gallery outside. 
In a moment, the door of his prison was 
flung open; clouds of smoke rushed in, 
and a fearful glare illuminated the entire 
cell. A young soldier stood before him and 
cried out, “ Save yourself, in God’s name I” 

The young soldier was Robert, Rich- 
ard’s son. By the carelessness of a 
drunken soldier, a fire had broken out in 
the building where the prisoners were 
confined. The soldiers who guarded the 
prisoner’s gate, had laid aside their arms 
and uniforms, and were engaged in extin- 
guishing it. Robert made use of the first 
confusion to seize the uniform and arms 
of one of the soldiers and run with them 
to M. L’Erlau. 


THE CANARI-BIRD. 


14 Be quick, and draw these clothes upon 
you !” he cried ; and he assisted him tc 
put on the uniform, placed the hat with 
the plume and cockade upon the side of 
his head, buckled on his sabre-belt, and 
put the musket upon bis arm. The beard 
which the poor gentleman had let grow 
during his confinement, made him re- 
semble more closely the savage-looking 
soldiers of the time, and completed his 
military appearance. 

“ Now,” said Bobert, ‘‘hasten boldly 
down the staircase, and out of the great 
gate. In this guise you will pass, I think, 
without difficulty. Then make the best 
of your way to my father, who will be 
found at the house of his brother, the 
fisherman, upon the Bhine.” 

The sight of the young soldier had been 
to M. D’Erlau like the apparition of an 
angel, and his words like a message from 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


heaven. He fell at once into the plan. 
With all the earnestness of one who had 
most important business, he hastened down 
the stairs, cried out with an authoritative 
tone to the people, who were pressing in 
with fire-buckets, “Way, way!” and 
reached the street without interruption. 
With a bold air and a rapid step, he went 
straight to the great gate, and having 
learned the Word from Robert, he passed 
safely out of the city. 

Long after midnight he reached the old 
fisherman’s house. He knocked at the 
window-shutter. The fisherman came out, 
and was no little alarmed. He imagined 
it was a soldier, come to arrest him or his 
brother, for they had made many enemies 
by their attachment and fidelity to the 
Erlau family. But when the worthy 
fisherman recognized M. D’Eriau, he 

lifted up his hands in wonder and thanks- 

4 * u 


THE CANARY-EIRD. 


giving, and led him joyously into the 
room. Eichard, who had been waiting 
and watching here for ten nights, threw 
himself into his arms, crying out, “ My 
dear master !” and they embraced one an- 
other affectionately. Erlau’s first question 
was about his wife and children. Eichard 
told him that the lady and Charles had 
escaped, that Miss Lina had been ill but 
was now well again, and in the house at 
that moment. The little girl, indeed, slept 
in the next room, and being awakened by 
Eichard’s joyous exclamation, she had re- 
cognized her father’s voice. She hastened 
to him with tears of joy, threw herself 
into his arms, and his tears plentifully be- 
dewed the rosy cheeks of his child. 

He resolved to cross the Ehine while it 
was still night, in order to escape from the 
country which once was a paradise, and 
now was but a den of murderers ; and he 

42 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


wished to cross to the still peaceful soil of 
Germany, in the same boat which had 
transported his wife and son across the 
river. He prepared himself and Lina foi 
the journey without delay. The old fish- 
erman went before them, and Richard 
followed with a portmanteau on his back. 
The night was clear and starry. In deep 
silence they were approaching the Rhine, 
where the little skiff lay in readiness 
among the bushes, when on a sudden they 
heard shots behind them, and a number 
of rough voices cried out, “ Halt, halt !” 

The fire in the prison had soon been ex- 
tinguished, and the soldiers, the moment 
it was over, examined carefully to see 
whether any of the prisoners had escaped 
during the confusion and uproar of extin- 
guishing it. To their great mortification, 
they found M. D’Erlau’s cell empty. The 
soldier who missed his uniform, his musket, 

43 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


and his sabre, cried out furiously : “ He 
has fled in my uniform and arms let 
us follow him at once !” They soon ob- 
tained traces of the fugitive ; and a whole 
troop of excited soldiers set out in hot 
pursuit. With fearful shouts they drew 
nigh. The poor fugitives were frightened 
almost to death, and made all the haste 
they could to reach the boat. M. D’Erlau, 
with Lina in his arms, sprang hastily in ; 
Richard followed him ; both seized the oars 
and rowed with might and main. The old 
fisherman, for whom there would not have 
been room in the boat, concealed himself 
in the hollow of a willow tree. 

But the boat was hardly twenty paces 
from the shore, when the soldiers reached 
the bank, and commenced firing on the 
fugitives. The bullets whizzed frightfully 
about the ears of the innocent voyagers. 
D’Erlau ordered Lina to lie down in the 

44 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


boat ; and they redoubled their exertions. 
A ball pierced M. D’Erlau’s hat, and two 
others lodged in Richard’s oar. The skiff, 
which was sunk to within an inch of the 
water, tottered and was almost sinking; 
but they all escaped unhurt, nevertheless, 
and reached the opposite shore in safety. 

M. D’Erlau fell upon his knees to thank 
God, and Lina and Richard followed his 
example ; and after this they sat down on 
the trunk of a fallen tree, to rest after then- 
desperate exertions. When they were a 
little rested, Richard, who had resolved not 
to leave his master in his trouble, led the 
way with his staff in his hand and the heavy 
burden on his back, and his master and 
Miss Lina followed him. He took the road 
which led to the mountain forest of Swabia, 
which, from the number of black and 
gloomy pines which are found there, is 
called the Black Forest. 


45 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


CHAPTER Y. 

THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 

M. D’Erlau’s greatest anxiety now was 
to find his wife. Richard was acquainted 
with an honest peasant in the neighborhood 
of the Black Forest, and to him they made 
their way in the first instance, in order to 
rest for a few days, and prepare for the 
rest of their journey. But hardly had 
D’Erlau set his foot within the cottage, 
when he began to speak of going. “ 1 shall 
not bave one easy moment,” said he to 
Richard, “ till I shall have found my wife 
and son once more. You tell me conli* 
dently, dear Richard, that they are in 
Switzerland. But how shall we ever make 
our way thither ? Lina will never be able 

46 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


to travel there on foot, and I am not able 
to take any conveyance.” 

Richard produced a purse of gold, and 
emptied it upon the table. 



u You are not so poor as you think, my 
dear, noble master,” said he : “ all this is 
yours” 


47 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


M. D’Erlau stared now at the gold, now 
at the faithful servant. 

“ As you were always independent,’* 
continued Richard, “so you were always 
benevolent too. How many persons are 
there, to whom you advanced money in 
their distress. Some of this money I have 
collected while you were languishing in 
prison, and your wife was an exile in a 
distant country. And although, as I found 
in this case, there are some who possess 
neither gratitude nor honesty, yet I also 
met many worthy souls, who not only re- 
paid the money which had been lent, 
but, in love and gratitude to their kind 
master, added from their own stock to the 
amount.” 

M. D’Erlau counted the money. “ It is 
a great deal, a very great deal,” said he, 
with a grateful look towards heaven ; “ but 
how long will it last ! how long can it last !*' 


THE CANA R Y-BIKD. 


“Never mind,” said Richard. “We 
shall manage it, and, never fear, we shall 
have enough to travel comfortably to 
Switzerland.” 

Richard bought a horse and a light 
farmer’s cart, which was so arranged that 
it could be covered against the wind and 
rain. They set out on their journey. 
Richard generally walked by the side of 
the cart. M. D’Erlau and Lina wished to 
take it by turns with him ; but at the 
urgent request of the kind-hearted old 
man, they were obliged to ride almost 
always. In this way they reached Switz- 
erland. But M. D’Erlau could not hear 
anywhere a syllable about his wife : all 
his inquiries were in vain. He was con- 
vinced that she must have taken some 
other road ; and they returned to Swabia. 

Meanwhile, his sufferings in prison, the 
agony and distress attendant on his trial, 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


the anxiety and fears of his flight, and the 
daily hardships to which he was exposed 
on the journey, all conspired to exhaust 
his strength. He fell sick, and was obliged 
to rest in a small town of Swabia, till his 
health should be restored. 

Richard took a couple of apartments, 
purchased the most necessary house furni- 
ture, and took charge himself of their hum- 
ble housekeeping, in which he was very 
skilful. — Lina assisted him with all her 
heart; and every morning and evening 
cheerfully performed all the little house- 
hold duties which were not beyond her 
strength. In the beginning M. D’Erlau was 
obliged to keep his bed almost constantly ; 
and it was a long time before he was able 
to sit up during the greater part of the day. 
Lina did everything in her power to cheer 
him, to take care of him, and to make his 

time pass agreeably. She contrived to 

so 


THE CANARY -BIRD. 


find a new pleasure for him every day, 
One time she would surprise him with a 
new dish, which she had herself cooked 
for the first time ; another time with a new 
eon g ; another, with an agreeable piece of 
news. And her father testified, in every 
conceivable way, his affection and his grati- 
fication with her dutiful dispositions. 

At last Lina’s birth-day arrived. Early 
in the morning she went to mass, to offer 
her thanks to God on this day, and espe- 
cially to pray for her mother, her father, 
and her brother. When she came home, 
behold ! in the window stood her favorite 
flower, a magnificent red and blue stock 
gilly-flow er ; and a little canary-bird, of the 
purest yellow, with a splendid crest, just 
such as she used to have at home, hung, in 
a pretty cage, above the flowers in the win* 
dow. The morning sun shone with unusual 
brilliancy and beauty into the window, and 

51 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


enlivened the colors of the flowers. Lina 
was enchanted. The tears rushed to her 
eyes, at this evidence of her father’s tender 
love for her. She thanked him with the 
liveliest expressions of caddish gratitude. 

“ Accept them for my sake, dear child,” 
said her father. 11 1 can give you no more 
now. Were We at home at our castle, it 
would have been different : this day would 
have been celebrated with loud jubilee, and 
would have been a festival for the whole 
village. To-day we must celebrate it with 
quiet joy.” 

A better dinner than ordinary was pre- 
pared. Her father was once more happy 
and cheerful at table; and Richard was 
forced to sit along with them. At the end 
of dinner the trusty old servant brought in 
an additional tart decorated with flowers, 
and a flask of the red wine of their own 
native land, Alsace. M. D'Erlau drank 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


first to Lina’s health, and then to that of his 
wife and son. But a melancholy feeling 
came over him in the midst of his joy, and 
the tears dropped into his wine. 

“ Ah, Lina !” said he, “ where are your 
mother and brother celebrating this birth- 
day of yours ? What has befallen them ? 
Alas ! a lady and a child driven out into 
the wide world, without friend or pro- 
tector, are exposed to a thousand incon- 
veniences, embarrassments, and dangers. 
Who can tell whether we shall ever again 
celebrate this day together? Once I used 
to have such a cheerful heart and so firm 
a trust in God’s Providence — but now I 
often have very gloomy hours. — I am 
afraid — I am afraid.” 

Lina threw herself weeping upon her 
father’s neck to console him. “ Take 
courage, dearest father,” she cried, “ God 
will not forsake us — He will bring us all 

5 * 53 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


once more together ; otherwise He never 
would have delivered us in so wondrous a 
manner. Be assured He watches ove7 
us l” 

“ Yes, that He does,” said Bichard, dry 
mg his eyes. They were all silent. It 
was a moment of deep and pious emotion 
for them all. 

When, lo ! on a sudden the canary* 
bird began to sing the air of the little 
song, which M. D’Erlau had formerly 
composed for his children, on “ Trust in 
Providence !” Lina clapped her hands in 
amazement. “ 0 my God !” she cried, 
“ what is this ? That is the first air 
which Charles learned to play upon the 
harpsichord, and to accompany him by 
singing — the very air which we were sing- 
ing when you were arrested, dearest 
father !” 

Her father, Bichard, and she, gazed at 

54 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


the little bird in wonder and amazement 
Lt sang the piece over again. 

“ It is the very air !” said Lina. “ Pre- 
cisely the same — not a single note is want* 
ing !” 

“That is most wonderful,” said her 
father, taking off his cap. “ 0 merciful 
God ! I believe Thou wilt restore my dear 
wife and son to me once again. It is 
only from them the bird can have learned 
this air, though I cannot comprehend 
how. 0 Richard, where did you get the 
bird?” 

Richard told him that he had bought 
the pretty little thing from a young Tyro- 
lese yesterday. 

“ Oh, run with all your might,” said his 
master, “and do everything in your 
power to find him out. Perhaps he may 
be able to give us more precise informa- 
tion.” 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


Richard remained a long time away; 
and M. D’Erlau and his daughter spent 
their time in most anxious expectation. 
“ How great must their distress have 
been,” he said, “to sell this dear little 
creature! or, perhaps it is that they are 
dead, and that the bird is all they have 
left us !” 

Richard at length returned with the 
young Tyrolese ; but the young man could 
not give any particular information about 
the bird. He had bought it from a shep- 
herd-boy in the Tyrol ; and Madam 
D’Erlau’s name was entirely unknown to 
him. But when M. D’Erlau interrogated 
him further, he assured him that such a 
lady and boy did live in his native district, 
and that it was very possible the bird 
might have belonged to them. I have 
fceen the lady at church every Sunday,” 
said he ; “ and I have often met the boy, 

56 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


who goes to school to the parish priest. 
The little fellow must be a great scholar, 
for he always carries on his back a great 
bundle of books, buckled in a leather 
strap.” 



He described the figure and appearance 
of the lady and the boy so accurately, 
that they all unanimously and joyously 

57 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


cried out, “It is they ! it must certainly 
be they !” 

They thanked God with many a tear, 
for disclosing to them, by His wondrous 
providence, the abode of their beloved 
friends. M. D’Erlau made the strictest 
inquiries about the place where the lady 
lived, and the road which led to it; and 
presented the astonished Tyrolese with a 
broad dollar for his true-hearted tale. 

They prepared for their journey with- 
out delay. M. D’Erlau forgot his weak- 
ness at once : the good news strengthened 
him more than the most powerful medi- 
cine. Lina assisted him in packing, and 
Richard went to put the little carriage in 
order, and to bring back their horse, the 
little brown, which he had lent to the inn- 
keeper, meanwhile, to work for his feeding, 
without hire. On the very next day they 
Bet out for the Tyrol. The dear little 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


bird was not left behind : it was hung up 
in v its cage to the arched roof of the car- 
riage ; and M. D’Erlau and Lina had the 
pleasure, from time to time during the 
journey, of being entertained by its en- 
livening notes. 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE REUNION. 

M. D’Erlau, with his little party, arrived 
safely in their rustic carriage in the chief 
village of the parish to which the hamlet 
of Schwarzenfels belonged. He went at 
once to the parish priest, who confirmed 
all that the young Tyrolese, who sold the 
bird, had told him. Madam D’Erlau and 
her son were still’ alive. “But the good 
lady,” said the priest, “ lives in the deepest 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


melancholy. She believes that her dear 
husband is dead, and since she heard this 
unhappy news her heart has never felt a 
single throb of joy. It was with difficulty 
she survived the mortal sickness into which 
her sorrow plunged her, and she is now 
recovering, but very tediously and imper- 
fectly.” 

M. D’Erlau inquired whence this falss 
intelligence had reached here. The priest 
produced a packet of newspapers, and 
selecting one of them, placed it before him , 
and M. D’Erlau read, with his own eyes, 
that he had been executed upon a certain 
day. Strange as this appeared, yet it was 
not difficult of explanation. In those days 
of confusion, this mistake was but a trifling 
irregularity. They had either forgotten to 
erase his name from the list of victims, 
which had been already prepared, or they 
had purposely omitted to do so, in order the 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


better to avoid animadversion foi allowing 
him to escape. 

It grieved M. D’Erlau to the soul, to 
learn that this false but melancholy news 
had thrown his wife into such affliction, 
and almost brought her to the grave. The 
parish priest thought that the utmost caution 
would be necessary now, in communicat- 
ing to her the joyful intelligence which 
awaited her. He discussed with M. D’Er* 
lau how it might best be done ; and though 
it was already late and the weather was 
very unfavorable, they all set out for 
Schwarzenfels. It had been raining all 
day, and now it began to snow heavily ; 
for in that country the winter sets in earlier 
than here. They soon reached the peak 
of the woody mountain, whence, through 
the pine branches, the humble cottages 
could be seen far in the valley below, with 
their flat snow-covered roofs and smoking 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


chimneys Here the party sat down upon 
a moss-gryvvn rock under the thick pines, 
whose pendant branches sheltered them 
from the wind and snow: and Richard 
went first to the cottage, which the kind- 
hearted priest pointed out to him, through 
a gap in the branches of the trees. 

Madam D’Erlau was sitting, in deep 
mourning, at her rude little fireplace, 
whose flickering blaze had begun to illu- 
mine the apartment, which was already 
somewhat dark. She was knitting, and 
her little boy was reading aloud. As she 
saw her faithful white-headed servant enter 
the room, she screamed aloud, and the work 
fell from her hands. She ran up to him, 
and, with tears of joy and of sorrow, saluted 
him as affectionately as if he were her father. 
Charles, too, was out of his senses with 
delight. The lady desired the old man to 
sit down up'cn the wooden stool which 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


Charles placed at the fire for him. u Ah, 
Richard !” she cried, as he sat opposite to 
her at the fire, “ is it thus we are destined 
to meet ? Alas ! let us not speak of the 
bloody death of my dearest, kindest, most 
excellent husband! — the memory is too 
gloomy. But what has happened Lina? 
Did the dear child die as the doctor fore- 
told ? Alas ! perhaps the darling child is 
now in her cold grave !” 

Richard told her that in order to persuade 
the mother to fly, the kind-hearted physi- 
cian had represented Lina’s illness, as more 
dangerous than it really was; and that she 
had recovered soon after, and had been 
well and healthy ever since. The mother 
was delighted — her eyes sparkled with joy. 

“ But why,” she cried, and her count©* 
nance fell again, “ why did you not bring 
her with you ? Why did you not rescue 
her from our unhappy country, where her 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


life is not safe for a single hour? flow 
could you be so hard-harted, as to travel 
without her ? How could you ?” 

Before she could finish the sentence, the 
door opened suddenly, and Lina flew into 
her mother’s arms. Charles, too, rushed 
into her embrace ; and it would not be easy 
to imagine more delicious tears, than those 
which the delighted mother shed, as she 
thus clasped them once more in her arms. 

But her joy soon changed into sorrow 
again. — “ Ah ! would that my dear husband 
were alive !” she cried, looking to heaven 
with tears in her eyes. “ Oh, then — then, 
indeed, would the measure of my joy be 
complete ! But now, my dearest children, 
you are poor fatherless orphans ; and the 
sight of you fills your afflicted mother’s 
heart with anguish ! For, alas ! what can 
I, a poor, unfriended, uncounselled widow, 
do for you !” 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


Richard now began, by distant prepara- 
tions, to open the way for the glad tidings 
of his master’s deliverance. But Madam 
D’Erlau was more collected than he had 
imagined. The great happiness of seeing 
the good old man once more — the still 
greater delight of clasping her daughter in 
her arms again — had been, for the high- 
souled lady, the most natural and gradual 
preparations for receiving now into her 
heart even the greatest joy — the joy of 
seeing alive once again her husband, whom 
she had believed to have been executed. 
With beating heart he had long been stand- 
ing outside the door, where he could hear 
every word that was said. 

When the lady now discovered, from 
Richard’s words, that her husband was still 
alive, she cried out in a voice of ecstasy: 
“He is alive! Oh, God’s mercy be for 
r.ver praised, which delivered him from 
6 * “ 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


his murderers! He cannot be far away 
from us. Come, my children, let us go to 
him ” 

At this moment M. D’Erlau opened the 
door, and threw himself, full of joy, into 
the arms of his wife. But the feelings of 
the poor lady, who, till that hour, had 
mourned her dear husband as dead, and 
now saw him living before her eyes, were 
altogether peculiar. Timid and fearful, as 
if she still doubted the reality of what she 
saw, she gazed upon him, as he stood before 
her in the light of the little fire. Unable 
to describe the happiness which thrilled 
through her soul, she exclaimed,, “Oh, 
what happiness awaits us in heaven, where 
we shall see again so many dear ones, 
whom on earth we bewailed as dead 1” 

Need it be said, that the little party spent 
a happy evening by their humble fireside ? 
The old Tyrolese and his wife joined them, 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


arid sLared heartily in the happiness of 
their guests. 

On the following morning another guest 
made his appearance, and one who, under 
God, had had the chief share in bringing 
about the reunion of this noble family. 
Kichard brought in the canary-bird, which 
he had left, the evening before, in the 
parish priest’s house. Charles was delight- 
ed to see his bird again. During his 
mother’s illness it had escaped through the 
window, and he had never heard anything 
more of it since then ; and now M. D’Erlau 
related how the bird had led to the dis- 
covery of his wife and son. His wife shed 
tears of joy and gratitude, at the wondrous 
dispensation of Providence. “Yes, good 
God!” she cried, clasping her hands, “it 
was Thou who didst so dispose it. Thou 
didst employ this little winged messenger, 
to tell my husband this secluded corner to 

67 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


which 1 had retired Had it not been foi 
his speedy arrival, I should have died of 
grief before the end of this winter !” 

Charles rapturously echoed his mother’s 
thanks. “Was it not a happy idea of 
mine,” he said, “to teach the bird this 
precise air ? Little did I dream, when I 
was so distressed about the loss of my bird, 
that God had only taken it from me, in 
order to give me back my father and sister, 
and the bird, too, into the bargain. This 
shows us how God, out of a trivial misfor- 
tune, may prepare a great blessing for us.” 

“You are right, dear Charles,” said his 
father. “It was with this view God took 
from us all our earthly goods, in order to 
give us better treasures in heaven. I trust 
that, by this temporary loss, we have all 
been gained to piety and virtue, in com- 
parison with which splendor and riches 
are nothing, and of which alone it can be 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


said that they possess an eternal v r alue. 
And after all, perhaps God may restore 
our temporal goods, too, as He has given 
you back your canary-bird.” 

The shepherd boy, whom Charles had 
employed to catch his lost canary, and who, 
instead of returning it, had sold it to the 
bird merchant, was very much confound- 
ed, when he was called before the parish 
priest, and learned from him how the 
theft had been discovered in another coun- 
try, many miles away. “ Never again, in 
my life,” said the boy, “ will I be guilty 
of a dishonest act, for I now see clearly, 
there is no roguery so clever that it will 
not be detected at last.” 

M. D’Erlau resolved to spend the winter 
under this humble roof. Eichard was 
lodged in one of the neighboring cottages: 
the canary-bird was restored to the place 
it had occupied before it flew away. 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


Lina took the greatest care of it ; am! 
even in the harshest season, never left it a 
day without a green leaf or a fresh slice of 
an apple. Many a time, in the bright win- 
ter days, when the happy family were all 
seated together in their little parlor, look- 
ing out upon the white earth, and the wild 
snow-powdered pine-forest, the bird would 
sing the first part of their favorite melody, 
and the children and parents together 
would sing the rest of it, an! console 
themselves by the sentiments it inspired. 
And even in the many gloomy occurrences 
and melancholy forebodings to which this 
family were afterwards subjected, it was 
always no trifling solace to them all, when 
the tiny songster would, on a sudden, set 
up his little melody, and conclude with a 
lively, cheerful shake. “ Yes,” they would 
say, “we will trust in Him who already 
has aided us so wondrously, by means of 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


so small and insignificant a creature. He, 
who can aid ns in a thousand ways, and 
has already done so, will continue his pro- 
tecting care over us!” 

“ Yes, yes !” old Richard would say, “ I 
think so, too. The sight of the poor little 
bird outside of the window there, in the 
deep snow and the piercing frost, has always 
something affecting in my eyes. I always 
think of the words — ‘ Consider the birds of 
the air : — they sow not, neither do they 
reap, nor gather into barns ; and yet your 
heavenly Father feedeth them. And are 
not you more precious than they?’ But 
when I see this little bird, these words 
sink deeper into my heart, and when it 
chants its little song, I cannot be down- 
hearted any longer, no matter how bad 
things may look, or how hard it may go 
with us. He who cares for birds of the air, 
will not forget us.” 


n 


THE CANARY-BIRD. 


This noble family were destined to live 
for a while longer with very narrow means ; 
but, in the end, were enabled to return to 
their country and recovered the greater 
part of their property. M. and Madam 
D’Erlau were rejoiced to find themselves 
once more rich and independent; for it 
enabled them to reward, to their hearts’ 
content, those who had been their friends 
in need, Richard, his wife and son, the old 
fisherman, and every one W'ho had shown 
them kindness. 

72 




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containing about 40 humorous and pa- 
thetic sketches. 12 fine full-page Illus- 
trations. Sold only by subscription. 

Only .....1 OO 

Catholic Prayer-Books , 25c., 50c., up to 12 OO 

13^" Any of above books sent free by mail on receipt 
of price. Agents wanted everywhere to sell abov6 
books, to whom liberal terms will be given. Address 
P. J. KIH1VEDV, Excelsior Catholic Publishing 
ii«use, 5 Barclay Street, New York. 























































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